Contemplations on the Lord and Love

It’s the Lord that loves women like me
the ones no one wants
the ones that get stepped on
stuck under the boots of men
making prayers
that maybe the next boots won’t land so hard
on breasts that keeps them
from lactating ever again

I am one of those people
who can’t get the hang of Holiness
as a kid I was in the confessional
every weekend doing five Hail
Marys and five Our Fathers
I didn’t like the priest
hearing me pretending to love him
without him knowing
that I specifically wanted him to be more
than a silhoutte illuminated through the screen
Alberto was hiding his life
beneath religious robes
it was his heart
I wanted to set up housekeeping in
under his bushy Zapata mustache
lived a solitary mouth
I couldn’t see myself
whispering secrets to another man
my whole life
so I left the statues
of Mary and baby Jesus behind

In dreams I taste silver strands of hair
in between my teeth
It’s Ian my seminary teacher
whose always asleep on my lap
after tutoring me all night
on church doctrine and doxology
is his sleeping head between my thighs
his nose smells me as perfume
and he asks me,
“What I am wearing?”
“Myself” I answer,
“It’s the scent of my body.”

Even to smell a body with the
heart Jesus says,
is beyond the expression
of purity
and I ask him,
“What if I have no one to express
myself to?”
“Dear Lord is it wrong
to create a soul to love?”

I’m in my bed alone at night
it’s my prison
the iron bars are my thoughts
which so far have not released me
I have a single visitor
my imagination begins to tell stories
of romance and intrigue
it has been my desire
to take care of a man
whose back has been opened
by whips and rods
to wash the blood
off of his back
to hold his weary soul
in my embrace
and I moan
“Oh pilgrim for Christ, let me love you!”
“Let us love Him together!”
and I want to accept
his dirty beard and pure heart
and shining eyes burning with love
for the Lord, and his eyes
won’t be wounded with liquor
they’ll be genuine thorns in them
cause he’s seen so much suffering
and his soul has felt the wrath
of hell upon his back
the scars will be evidence
of the depth to which he

But there are no missionaries around
only the checker at the supermarket
I’ve watched for years
my eyes have become voyeurs
my lonely heart spying
has become a hunter
his barren eyes always renounced me
soon I discovered
how furious is the bullet from a gun
and how deep a hole
unresponsive eyes can make
as usual I struggled in letting go
as scrutinizing him had become
like chemo-therapy
and nothing more
everyday my self-esteem was balding away
how does hope make peace with
and how does reality reconcile
the two?
there are the times I wish my eyes
were gouged like Sampson’s
for looking where they shouldn’t
isn’t some sin necessary?
my breasts and thighs
have been abandoned needing refuge
for years I’ve asked passion to abstain
from it’s business
I’ve had to find company with my own
I’ve denied the secret places
a woman desires to be searched
because my bible says,
“obedience is the countenance
of every Christian.”

Its these times that I imagine
my head prostrate at the feet of God
to remember loneliness is only skin deep
and heaven will be eternal moments
alone with the Lord
today I have prayed that God
would send our daily bread
and some have more bread
than others
and some drive bigger cars
while I have blisters on my feet
from walking all day
the evangelists on t.v. say,
“I have to claim it in the name of Jesus.”
and rub his bottle through prayer
and they heal people in mass
summoning God’s power
treating God like a genie
and I’ve seen these t.v. evangelists
asking money from the poor
for their ministries
telling them they are robbing God
make prayer a petition of demands
like Martin Luther’s 96 theses tacking
them onto the gates of heaven

I want my prayers to be more than
I want them to be journeys
to travel upward through the sun
into God’s blazing Glory
seeing Him like Moses did
and His flaming eyes
would not destroy me
but be the burning expression
of His inner desire for me
and His Holy Spirit
would be the minister on the altar
and His shed blood is the sacrifice
of true justification
and the Lord’s intimates are the crucified
I know He’ll heal the wilderness
the enigma every life must bear
through the journeys we individually travel
and I want Jesus to whisper divine instructions
telling me the secrets of surviving down here
He would inspire me to rejoice
even in the midst of men’s boots
and His quiet voice would say,
“Sssshhhhh, don’t rush off,
sit at my feet don’t be Martha,
“Sssshhhhh, be John against my bosom”
the Lord says,“I never end and there
is peace once you’ve come to the end
of youself
beyond the Glory of the stars
is the place called Heaven”

But I never stay an interloper
who wandered into God’s world
and the closer one gets to Him
the SS becomes more deliberate
with tearing you away
it’s the same dark way
the SS pulled wives away from
the same violent way
mother’s hands were pried
from babies still breastfeeding

These are the same men
who compromise the etiquette
of civilization
everytime they tear our flaps
apart down there
without bothering to seal them up again
leaving us lonely heretics to question God
and I find myself burning myself at the stake
for the things I do wrong
there is this leak in my armor of faith
and there are times
this rebellion like a poison in my blood
seeks out its own truth
it is through with the patience
of God
expecting me to pardon men
who put me on that train
to Poland
and they let me stand out there for roll call
with bare breasts bruising from exposure
wearing thier selfish concerns for me
giving me only a moth eaten rag
to wrap around agony

Am I not expected to question God?
there are times my rebellion
seeks out its own truth
I let myself carve
strange things out of my own flesh
and I carve the same swastikas
they carved into me
and Christopher’s boots
have come down hard over my face
as careless as walking over concrete
they didn’t do it to make me stay down
it was part of their SS routine of mishandling
those they don’t consider equals
and we were women to be mistreated
the subtle dogmas bred into civilization
that’s why some of us wear fingerprints
around our throats like turquoise jewelry
I let you rearrange my veins to change me
and I am always the one leaning over the kitchen sink
to wring out my tears
and I’ve put this old dish rag into so many holes
men have blown into me
one day I want braver fingers than these
to pull the trigger I always find myself squeezing
so tightly

After years after knowing you
I had a one night stand with you
and that was the last bullet I had inside me
to put into you
releasing it to kill the friendship we had
you were the last SS man
I would pass before
going into the gas chamber
of my mind
and we stayed with that last bit of flesh inside
spitting ourselves out to escape each other
to escape the intrusive nature of our hearts
that consistently leaves to find something new


Contemplations on the Lord and Love

Matty B. Duran

Fresno, United States

  • Artist

Artist's Description

“Come to Me, all you who labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
Take My Yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.
For My Yoke is easy and My Burden is light."
(Matthew 11:28-30)

I wrote this when I felt lonely and I thought how God might feel about my loneliness. He told me I never had to be lonely for He is with me. Whenever i pray and/or praise the darkness of loneliness lifts and becomes morning and gladness in my soul. PRAISE HOLY GOD!! ALL PRAISE TO THE LAMB OF GOD!!

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