I Sing Clean

Iron wrought gates swing wide;

Cherubim winged singing,

I stand inside as

Gavel hammered session ringing bids me nigh,

But blush at nothing brought.

“What do you have?”

Empty hands,

Palms of no man’s land: balmy deserts.

The last of sandy-handed grains drip through fingers;

Clanging final moments to the ground.

“What do you have?”

“Nothing."

I thought to say “something,” but gagged; 

To say anything, could only say the thing I had:

nothing.

“How do you plead?”

Judgement loud as my lack,

I rack my brain-hands; in turn their hearts ratchet.

My right beats a steady drum of beatings:

The people puncher, fistful puller,

Piles of them down to feel fuller,

No fight, yet faces and fury swirl.

Souls chipped by heart hardened fist furls;

A guilty right.

Left,

Yielding all thought of vice grip,

Everything slips.

Undone.

Producer of none, 

Produces not one of the fruits planted.

Ah, seed not fruit; the scantily clad hand

Remembers scattering, 

But wind! Oh, the wind!

That scarfed up the would-be-eatens,

the delicious what-could-have-beens devoured into dust.

Left hand’s throat gags;

To be a truth teller, throwing was dropping.

Hand held rags drag me to my knees.

“Arise, Son!

You brought nothing!”

Roars erupt,

Crowns are cast, cascading down my back,

There the King stands.

Blood-stained hands drip;

Hyssop branch lipped,

I sing clean.