Clean

This is for you, for that time when

the mud seemed to

keep spreading all over you

the more you tried to get it off

(a hand unwittingly bestowing smudges

on your face, your hair, too, now enmired)

When all those hapless efforts to get clean

evidently just made you worse

(the weary resolutions you adopted, to get out

just sank you deeper)

And the rough voice said,

There is guilt, obviously —

there must be payment,

your redemption will, no doubt,

take a long time

(if, indeed, beneath the mud,

there’s anything left to redeem)

You cried, save, or I perish.

You washed yourself in tears,

you huddled, waited

And that, as always,

is when the lifting waters come,

bearing you up, separating

each strand of hair, floating

the dirt away, wrapping you

in weightless warmth

And tender hands 

cradle you, bring you home,

saying, this is my precious child!

and everyone rejoices.

©Wendy Mulhern

June 30, 2016