# Living Psalm 54_Mankin for September 22, 2024 (Due September 9)

Today, I have no taste for revenge 
disguised as justice. I am sick to death 
of wickedness so sharp and common
that it leaves a trail of empty beds
and bombed out houses in its wake.

I am too busy standing at the door, weeping.

A bee lands on a stalk of lavender, 
bobbles there gently. The whole weight
of humanity’s existence in a round,
soft body. She doesn’t know 
how much we need her. 
She just does her job,
provides for her community,
seeks out beautiful places to land.

And I am here in the grass, stretched out, waiting.

I am tired of how much wickedness there is in me,
how my eyes sting from the dust kicked up 
by my enemies. Their actions are evil -
cold and sticky as my own thoughts
or the red-hot rage that pulses within. 
I have done nothing today, consumed, as I am,
by thoughts and prayers that someone, by God!
Someone! might rewrite our story. 

I have done nothing but weep.

One bee - my bee, I have decided - has been joined by others,
although some are wasps, which I hate (irrationally, 
yes, but they are crueler than bees and butterflies
and we are taught to hate what is cruel, or to forgive,
when what we really dream of is to change it,
or if we’re very lucky, mold it into God’s image 
instead of our own.)

But this cannot be God’s image, not this body that betrays me,
fills me with dread and queasy acceptance or all I cannot change.

There is such wickedness all around me. It could come down the road
any moment, and in fact, on some street, it has already arrived.
It’s massive, isn’t it? A cloud that chokes us and blots out the sun. 
It is in me, in this hatred I protect as though it is a treasure, 
hatred against every person who gives in to the impulse to control and destroy. 
I could let go.

I could let God…

I could leave a little space for the possibility of something more, 
for the power of a billion hearts beating in the same caged chests,
ready to break free, if only we could bring ourselves to accept a key 
to the waiting garden, filled with wasps and weeds 
and all manner of poison stinging things
But also, with bees.