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  • Writer's picturecherylmurfin

36. The Iron Cross

The Iron Cross

I thought it would be bigger

I didn’t expect the tour busses

Or the picnic tables and trash bins

The selfies being taken

Atop that pile of prayers

And sins and names

And all manner of letting gos

I feel invasive reading

The rocks laid down by others

And think perhaps

I am not believer enough

To leave my own rock here

But I have carried it all this way

And on it the names of my transgressions

At least the ones I remember

Which I don’t want to carry any more

The rock is small

My list is long

It is written in a sort of code

For lack of space

I figured if there is a forgiver

She can decode my rocks

I walk to the center

I touch that iron cross

Actually, the pole that hoists it

And I think perhaps, maybe

I do feel its pulse under my fingertips

I feel it riding through my body

up that arm, over my shoulders

Down the other arm

Into that stone in my pocket

Which whispers to my hand

“Give me to the mountain”

My hand obliges

Not bothered by whether

I believe in this action or not

Focused instead on the possibility, however slight, of reconciliation

Letting it fall from my hand

I leave my painful stories there

At the top of the heap

For someone else to read

And wonder about

And I walk down the slope

Into the arms of my beloved

The one all those acts I laid down

Eventually lead me to

I thank God for

All the times my selflessness shined

As well as my transgressions

I untether them all from right and wrong

I untether myself from good or bad

And give what is past to the past

Before I continue on the journey

Absolved, released, jubilant, somber

I wave to the tourists

Who look slightly ashamed

Climbing into their luxury buses

I want to say to them

It is not necessary

To walk a long distance

To cut off your shackles

And leave them behind

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1 commentaire

30 janv. 2019

You touch my heart. Again.

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