the curse burns easy out of my heart but trips once, twice on my tongue.
this, not two hours after the sermon centered on reconciliation, about the older brother.
this, after weeping over those I love who harden their hearts to the Feast.
this, after the whisper to my own stand-in-the-cold heart:
come back inside, love.
not two hours ago.
I say it to his face, to one from whom a wrong perceived, though halfway known.
[I realize later this is the Old Ones’ definition of wrath.]
what began as that comforting righteous indignation ended up in bed with
the self-righteousness, the actual wrong courted by bitterness aged,
true injury gouged in old scars but left to fester.
if you are seeking the Doctor’s attentions, you must uncover the wound.
how to crack open my own chest, peel away my own slipshod dressing?
how to heal, not just “get over?”
how to forgive as I have been forgiven?
how to set free the debtor, set myself free in turn?
is it action or emotion: a grace to feel or to do?
I know the end of that parable.
…if you do not forgive your brother or your sister from your heart.
I know what it means to pick the scab, to lick and relive,
to burrow into shadow until the speeches we make to ourselves
are all we see, finally dancing before us.
even if I knew how, I’m not so sure I could do it:
to relinquish what I’m owed, to waive even the one day’s wage?
I’m not so sure I can do something as radical as Light.