an apology.

Holy Land- not mine to take

stolen land,
stolen past,
stolen place.
I don't know your side, 
see the tears in your eyes-
the ones you want to cry 
but don't 
and know
that there is more to this than I could know.
more than cause and effect-
the judgement that infects
the stigma you must bear.
I'm sorry on behalf of those who 
stare, with empty tasteless eyes
longing to despise you
for your story- I'm sorry
that it's comprised 
in part by my ancestory,
sorry that history 
benefits only me,
and
I'm beginning to understand
that though we stand together
on this same street
there is a space between
you 
and 
me 
where we will never meet.

and as I stand here
in silent shame
(Holy Land, stolen place)
I lament the part which I have played
and, naming the history that's 
mine to face
I begin the slow walk
toward being changed. 

the church, our mother

our wayward mother-
in her stainless bridal gown,
stained glass crown...
born in the crux of an empire 
long removed
she began to conspire.
gathering in the ruin of
city and slum...
grew up resilient in Kingdom-come
but fell into the path of power.
selling her soul to feel 
some little bit of control-
marred by complacency and violent division
yet married still-
vows remembered in penitent contrition...

there is still a path for the wayward,
it will lead her forward
through the devastated places
and into festivals of celebrated graces
if she will fall to her knees...
albeit-
waywardly
we fall to our knees.