Shekinah Glory

Inside this bustle
that keeps us moving
is a fear of your touch.
We pretend that we
do not see you
nestled amongst our pain.
We do not go there
because your balm
requires open wounds
of an embarrassing flow
that cannot be hidden.
We know of no bandage
that cauterizes such sores.
This lie that growth
can avoid peering into
our hurting inside
must fall away.
What replaces it?
Sometimes pain is all we know,
we do not know this other self
that you want us to be.
You know suffering
but what healing
is there in empathy?
Bring us to solitude
and then at least
one good work
for your community.