By Jen Hunt, from the archives, 1/27/13
Hanging head and huddled spine
Ever-guard my inner shrine
Yet the hole in my gut cannot hold rain
Erect.
Back’s silhouette though a curvèd line
Echoing the shape of upturned palm
Is ne’er as calm.
Who can know a dry soul, filled
When on their feet and granite-willed?
Upright when I should have lain,
My head, aloof, forms a roof
Beading off the beggar’s gain.
“I’d rather die of thirst than sink;
I’m better off,” or so I think.
Give me courage to lay me down
Cradled in your royal gown
Quench me with a dearer rain
Than grief or pity, doubt or shame.
Enter, fill my inner chest
With what is good, and true, and best.
For who can know a dry soul filled
When on their feet and granite-willed?
May my posture and my frame
Befit your all-sufficient Name.
