Just as sparks fly upward


Trouble,

hard as flint, and sharp,

intrudes itself into every heart.

We ache for loss,

for shame, for wounds,

we ache for knowing what we know.


This is the fruit of the knowing we desired, 

as the voice from our shadow 

promised agency without grace,

warmth without fire.


Trouble is near,

greedy for ruin, for death,

this stalking violence we hope to deflect 

with our wealth

with our power, 

with our prayers…


…with our prayers! – what makes us think

that your friendship exempts us

from loss, from shame, from wounds,

from knowing what we know?


The sin of the world, is it

the entropy of goodness, 

wholeness, safety, life?

Is it the trouble we’re always in,

born to it just as sparks fly upward?


How does the violent death of that young rabbi,

in that place, at that hour, 

take away this sin,

free us from this trouble?


I’m asking for a friend.

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