Poem: The Way

The Way

The way to God
is not pristine.
It doesn’t smell
like peppermint—
more thorns than rose.
You can’t walk back
to God in your
new Sunday clothes.
Work boots are more
appropriate.
God’s garden is
irrigated
in blood and tears.
His path goes by
pigs eating husks
and destitute
widows who have
nothing left to give.
We don’t look good
by painting our
sepulchres white,
instead we gain
divine favor
by beating our
chests and crying
that we are full
of rotting bones.

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