Ordinary Clergy

Some priests are plain like soil
They dumpster dive in back alleys
Searching for the tithe offerings of capitalism  
They have never donned white robes or purple stoles
They don't wear gold-embroidered crosses,
But bear crucified souls, pierced by contradictions
No authority conferred by human hands
Only passion fanned by the gust of a dancing God
Who Harlem shakes to the rattle of buckling knees
And chattering teeth

Some priests are free like children
Still chasing curiosity over sofa ledges
They've traded carpet burns for road rash
Mature scars scabbed over young hearts
No mommy to snuggle their fears   
Unschooled by pious men who claimed
that Jesus removes every stain
But their tainted skin
They scrape for living roots beneath trees
whose fruit both poisoned and nourished their fathers
They come home at night to loud apartment complexes  
To baptize their shabby members in Epsom salt baths
They transform dank bathrooms into makeshift temples
And inhale cigarette smoke like holy incense
Exhaling anxiety clouds   
The flaking ashes remind them of the dust they are

They stroll and stumble
through grocery store isles
Irritated by long lines and screaming children
Clutching a thin rope of last nerves
Debating the value of skittles
They accidentally spit saliva  
Holy because it erodes pretense on contact
They house sins in the storerooms of their arteries

Some priests are bare like winter trees
No anointing oil but the sweat of their palms,
The balm of their ancestors pressed against your flesh
To heal the wound of religion without compassion
To fill us with the spirit of freedom fighters

Some priests are warm like oven doors
They are mothers and sisters
Ordained by heaven when their water broke
They break communion bread on dilapidated tables
With oatmeal and expiring milk
They multiply wonder bread for days
In sundresses that pour out grace sweeter than syrup
Their prayers are littered with cuss words
Tired from burying men who drowned in pools of Old English
No air of confidence she breathed could resurrect him
So she wept

Some sunbathe under street lamps
Their bravado stripped by windstorms
They pantomime sermons from invisible pulpits,
And recite verses from the hustler's script
Their daddies preached
Trying to summon food from parched lands
With broken spells   
In worn boots that tell a thousand stories
For those with ears to hear

These are the ones we try to rescue
When they resemble God more than our framed images
These are the ones we need
Even more than they need us
These are the ones who would rescue us
With calloused hands that sand away our pride
If we let them.