Skein Home
Author's Works
View 6 comments
 

We've wandered almost twenty years

and blood wells up under our feet.

God's people they say, promised land,

milk, honey, light on a hill,

salt of the earth and in the earth

and now nothing will grow.

Manna rains down on our backs, shoulders.

At night, God's flame burns through our eyelids,

brighter than Egypt's sun.

How much longer, oh Lord? we cry

and he answers, Until you have learned to stop asking.

If you do not sleep for forty years,

perhaps it will be seared on your eyes:

the terrible price of this freedom.