Hip Struck

I crave silence
but not just any,
rather the
kind that slathers
the soul like a
soothing salve
and leaves a blanket
of protection, soft luxury
upon the skin. The kind
that penetrates the
crusty rim and reaches
the brittle reed within.

Layers and layers of lanolin,
silence swathes a path of
healing, deep scrubbing, Sun silent,
and cleansing the lowest
bowels where the most fowl
waters putrefy. The kind
of silence that’s thick as
blood and runs clear to
silver crystal fountain canceling
the wicked poison. Silence that
finds a home to linger, to nestle
until the scarlet anecdote
turns to snow, until the hand
strikes the hip at dawn
and breaks the silence.

Genesis 32:22-33; Job 40:1-9; Psalm 46:10

©Bonnie Saul Wilks
Jerusalem, Israel
May 11, 2014