Kick the Goad

Face façades force me to face
the clay that clings to my flesh;
that clay that shapes itself
depending on the crowd,
depending on the shroud.

I just want to kick the goad.

I’m angry at death,
angry that the stain
still clings and reigns,
angry that death’s not done
wreaking havoc, gaining gains.

I should speak in tense-past,
when discussing death’s out-cast.
I should light where Light
has dealt death to death.

But
death’s death is shrouded,
hidden from my unseeing eyes;
blind I stand and blind I rise.
I refuse to wash my muddy eyes.

for my friend KW

A reflection on James 1:23, Acts 26:14, Hebrews 2:14-15, and John 9:6-7 and the too soon passing of a friend; may light perpetual shine upon her.

rl busséll — poet