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Sass, she done
come back to the music
thank God! No more
cracking of the spine
no chiropractic twists
to read the print I read
before I signed and
then forgot, so busy
aren’t we now, all
waiting for a sign.

There’s lots of talk
these days about
remembering, as if
a horror hung in front
of us will somehow
keep the dread from
happening again
solemnity, our bed
deprivation of what’s
good and fun become
our newest sexy. Please!

Have you ever
worked backstage
of a preacher man?
Ever listened to a prophet
on a bad day when he
thinks nobody’s looking,
felt the bite of an injured
thrashing pride? Leo knew
best when he sent us that
press release from the
Peaceable Kingdom where
he’s already hanging with
the forever Lamb; they’re
feasting, not weeping, have
been for aeons on cornpone
and ham, pinching hot
sweet buns who are only
pretending to be cross.
Those blood-stained doors
they are always passed
over. It’s Law!

Lordy child, we’ve been
given so many clues and still
we resist a good Mystery. Hung
up on temptation, we pay too
much lip service to serial tragedians
with their pre-written scripts
of betrayal and doubt who are
looking to cast you in roles
you are bound—can you hear?—
you are bound to hate.

Unless your game is
cuffs and whips, you never
have to cry, let me out, let
me out! We are frequencies,
my dear, vibrating contributors
tuneable to everything, joyful
spanners of an ever-growing
Universe, if we’d just stop
throwing wrenches
into the mix.

Now, you don’t have
to like my lip or the cut
of my jib, your furrowed
brow does nothing for me
either. It’s in the rub, dear
friend, what grates and thrills,
what chills and spills our
drinks, these are the sacred
goads, our means and proof
we are alive. We are alive!

The sass, she done
come back for me is all
that matters, now she’s
here and mattering, make
way for she and I don’t
ever look behind. Alleluia!


© Elaine Stirling, 2013