Inspection: a poem on dirt and Jesus

Photo by Daniel Lincoln on Unsplash

I was told that God wore white gloves
slipped His finger 
down 
the 
contours 
of hard-to-reach 
shame

checked for dirt 
behind the rib cage

required spit-polished souls
zero tolerance for mess

I wanted to pass inspection

I made my spirit an incurious loft
spare
quiet
Each nervous, curated choice
a vacuum
static-free 
beyond challenge
so pristine
so stainless
there were no fingerprints
as if no one 

lived

there

Jesus walked in 

did not wipe His feet
dirt and ash 
clung to him
I was 
afraid
white glove inspection and all this dirt

He laughed
Clapped His hands in streaming rays of sun

Particles of dust 

glistened

hung

cradled in light

that laid bare every speck
I missed

He smelled intoxicating 
fresh earth and charcoal
tragedy and resurrection


Live.

he said

There is dirt
there is dust

There is light.

Beloved, 
I don't wear white gloves.