by Name Withheld, only wishes to be known as "A Priest in God's Church"
[shared with permission]
In the molecular space
between his palm
and Lincoln's own imprint
on the worn burgundy
of Holy Scripture
there is a wall:
built of the crumbling dust
of liberty and equality;
hardened bricks fashioned
out of mud and straw
men, scarecrows
protecting a barren field;
mortared by misogyny
violence, racism,
and the petty thirst
for the power
of a nation's original sins;
painted in gold leaf,
and hanging at the center,
a love letter in Cyrillic
and the portrait of a man
named Dorian Gray.
In this whisper of space,
between leathered skin and red velvet
is the resistance of the holy
where hope exists,
thin and imaginary and growing.
It is the place where,
no matter how hard
his palm presses on the sacred
for power and glory
It can never touch
what is holy
It can never silence
the voice of God
protesting
with every
holy
breath.
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