#12

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.