some stains refuse to be washed out:
mustard, wine, grease.
blood.
there are those that will swear to a remedy.
i have yet to see one
fully work,
fully clean.
out damned spot!
you proclaim my guilt as i,
head low, voice lower,
ask God
to attend on mortal thoughts.
i smell flowers.
i smell grace.
and i see on that ground
somewhat ascending
the wooden instrument
that laughed its way through a dirge
is that God’s blood i see?
oh scandalous joy.
for some stains refuse to be washed out.
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