Photograph by Fayssal Zaoui © 2009 and used with permission

I have taken the outdoor seat of an unwanted child
cold
unwell
unwilling.

Lies cover me like layers of dirt,
Dull layers of dirt that look like skin.

I smell the water
but cannot find it.
Even free water can’t make me clean.

My nutrition poor, the cough deep in my chest
The lines in my face draw down
My old friends used to beckon me
but I stay on my outdoor seat.

Don’t want to talk about the dirt
or the curb
or the trash.

Photograph by Elizabeth Telhami © 2010 and used with permission

I’m brilliant and wise
so they say…
but the dirt won’t let me go.

I fumble hopelessly with tangled lies.
and angrily shove them back down into my cart.
My portable closet of secret important things…
things like
strings and words and shards of glass.
They are all mine and I won’t let them go.

I sit in my heap on the curb
and watch
as the gravel on the street stands still.

Winter clings…
Spring past due,
the skies so dark and gray.

My garbage is frozen in ice
The world, cold beneath my cracked and leathery feet.
I curl up in my worn body and faintly remember green.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/fallenidol/1907882856/
Photograph by Fallen Idol © 2009 and used with permission

From under my dirt
I feebly seek You.
In my frozen pools of introspect and failure, I’m convinced You don’t want me.
I hang my head and cling to the cold.
And still….
You whisper.

A voice I know.

A sound so familiar…
like water in the womb.

A comfortable rhythm from before the dirt came.
The truth I can’t seem to believe, a truth I can’t fathom…
but, today,
I’m so tired I can’t cover my ears…

I hear You.

I catch a glimpse.

The me in the wanted seat.

The lies laid bare… the tangled mess unravels
and in this electric moment,
I lift my head and breath.
The sky rumbles and the clouds roll.
Drops begin to hit my head. I won’t run from them.

I won’t hide in my usual doorway.

Photograph by Saurabh Sawant © 2009 and used with permission

The rain falls warm and dirt runs away in little rivulets.
I furiously forget my position and wash in the downpour.

I weep in the deluge.
Today, my cherished trash washes down the street in the gulley
Today…
I look up.

I feverishly surrender as I wipe the dirt from my arms.
It is not my skin.

I let my cart go racing down the hill.
Truth pours from the sky.

I set out buckets to receive.
Warm.
Well.
Wanted.
Saved.

Taking my seat as a wanted child.

Covered in truth.
I will not practice my unworthiness…
but think only of Your radical embrace.

Photograph by Isolano © 2008 and used with permission