Desert Fire

Despairing of myself

I have desired to go

alone

into the desert’s fire

I lay myself down

on the operating table

as on an altar;

eyes blinded by light.

A laser beam

pinpoints the cancer of my sin;

the smell of burnt offerings rising

as a smoke signal of

my willingness to be made whole.

The white hot heat

of the surgeon’s knife,

an intensity beyond pain,

cauterising my wounds.

I have only to submit.

Then I rise

hollowed,

hallowed,

healed

to go back changed for ever.

But my God calls me instead to meet her

at the communal washtubs.

Amidst the general hubbub

and under others’ gaze

God and I sort through

my laundry basket

down to the deepest layer

where lurk

the secret, shameful stains.

With vigour and good humour

God takes my dirty washing in her hands

and a bar of soap¹

and we both rub away till our hands are red raw.

“Till next week, love” she says.

1.   Malachi 3 v.2

Rachel Parkinson 16^th Feb 2010