Thy will
Stings like a colony of bees,
your wrenching words
tear the fat off my bones,
and make me frail,
an infant desperate for
the warmth of Mother.
Thy will?
Surely this cannot involve
my good, but instead (I pray)
full life, a bottomless cup,
the nostalgic good
that makes even the bitterest
old man weep with reckless joy.
So please, let loose the wasps, too,
my bloodied flesh is Yours,
as Yours was mine.
Thy will.
