Every morning your shaking hands strip me
Then anoint me with oil,
that leaves me cold.
With ease you reassemble me.
Then before you break your fast
you offer me supplication.
“May I be blessed, ” you say.
“May I spit holy fire at your foes,
May I strike down the unworthy.”
By this you believe
you transfer your guilt to me.
You believe you instruct, I kill.
But I cannot pull my own trigger.
This poem deserves a few lines of explanation. I’m a member of the Birmingham Poetry Stanza group who meet on a regular basis to do poetry workshops, discuss poetry and a whole host of other interesting events. Recently Stanza leader Roz Goddard bought in a host of old postcards she owned and we did an exercise where we chose a image that stood out to us and wrote a dialogue from someone or something in the picture. This poem is the result of that, it is also my fictional interpretation of the image.