Begging milk from stones.
Begging bread from tight fisted paupers.
Lips cracked and bleeding,
Tongue dry and swollen,
I have turned again and again to rock,
Pressing mouth to stony nipple,
Nourishment from a stone,
Water where there is none,
Life from a rock.
Call it by a thousand names
Call it lover or mother or dad,
Call it sister or brother or man,
Call it money or security or education,
Call it by a thousand names and a thousand more.
I have explained and rephrased.
I have wailed and torn flesh.
I have sweat blood before a senseless alter.
I have cried out against the ravages of fortune.
I have been thirsty.
I have been dying of thirst.
This alter does not give in return.
I leave offerings: blood, sweat, tears,
At stony feet and expect redemption.
No more stone suckling.
No more begging bread where there is none.
I AM the bread the wine and the water.
I, in the midst of me, am Great.
Not he, or she, or we, or it.
At the center of my being.
I have been a stone suckler.
And I shall suckle at stones no more.