Grief upon grief,
Life piles upon us.
As if stacked dishes
Forgotten will self-clean.
Here comes the quick wit, biting sarcasm,
Layering pan in thick, congealed grease fat,
That cleans after a scrubbing or two,
Only to reappear the next day, shiny and
Rainbow- like, needing a daily rinse.
Then there are the secret ones--
These scald hot flesh like burn marks on pans,
No amount of scrubbing will rid them;
No amount of tries, raw, red hands, sharp,
metallic bristles, scalding water, or aching sores,
furiously, the head
bows, lament of destruction--
Consumption takes its
toll.
Wretched burn marks made permanent now, new part of pan.
Oh, but the sins that hurt the most
Are the ones that I create,
Yah, these, like cold water on hot metal,
warp pan, disfiguring
it into two asymmetrical halves,
and leave something
bent, twisted, and useless.
A broken tool. A
warped vessel.
What can clean it, what can clean it?
Shall I trust that grace alone cannot only scour,
But rinse, refresh, rebuild, renew, replace
Warped and fragile vessel to make new again?
It is too magnificent a thought.
Yeah, too magnificent.
I shall try myself, instead,
To wash all of the dishes as a sort of penance.
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