Sometimes a miracle upends your life In ways you can’t control and wouldn’t choose. Your eyes are still adjusting to the light When you’re hauled up before some angry Jews. And so instead of lingering on each line That marks your mother’s face or staring at A swooping bird or laughing at the child Who’s toddling with his father down the street, You’re forced to gaze on men with narrow eyes And tight, pale lips who skewer you with glares, Incapable of recognising grace While blinded by their legalistic fears. You’re ostracised. But in your loneliness He looks for you and—found—you see his face.
This is an incredible poem. I never really thought of that angle before, but it connects with a thread of my life right now. Thank you!
And thank you, Rebecca! :-)