Under The Fingernails

Oh God, I am as dry and crumpled and rattling

As a rolling husk of weed in November.

Parched heart, brown seed,

Mouth thick with spit

Like puss,

Unspeaking.

Mind as barren as a stubble field

and cold as tundra.

 

Oh God, my hands curl

like dried fruit.

My lips and skin part and crack.

I stink of dust.

Shake me from your sandals, Lord.

Draw and pour fresh well water over Your head.

Let it trickle between Your toes.

Tread, mash, and swish me around.

Return me to that clean, bright,

Slick, rich wetness:

The clay under the fingernails of God.