redemption

most common
among our
shared dreams
is redemption,
one shot at a do-over.

some imagine
it will come through magic,
seeking the hand raised above the hat
where the rabbit waits
for spring and applause.

some refuse to admit it,
but they expect to spy it first
coming hard on the heels of torture.
(too much time spent staring at a cross
can do that.)

some hunt for it
in others,
make their plays for its attention
from a stage or a bed,
reject themselves by projection.

reading, writing, speaking out.
washing dirty laundry in public, or
endlessly chanting sins in private for a fee.
dancing on coals, peering into stones,
swallowing sharp-crusted bread for hunger’s sake;

longing for enough when nothing can be enough.
the past has passed. our arms,
our hands, our mouths will all stop bleeding
eventually, through clot or scar,
or through our lives leading us

to the only honest chance we have:
ashes and dust, reforming into the next body
that will struggle as we have again,
fantasizing that it is
itself it struggles for.

think of that. hear it in yourself:
a call to tenderness.
imagine your self again, and do the simple
purification of not choosing
your own legacy. it will come in its own time.