Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Black out my forehead.
Place the symbol that implicates me
where everyone can see.
Make it visible. Make it tangible.
Make the G-d of the Cross
the cranium consideration of my entire life.
I am guilty.
We are guilty.
No rituals of pardon. No premature forgiveness.
Let this religion force upon the body
the truth of worldly death
because of Gaza and Grant and Iraq and dirty rivers.
Remind me by the imposition
that I am not the Savior but the one needing to be saved
because my funds and fuck-around attitudes
keep modern Calvary's realistic and resounding.
Because generations of slightly off-center womyn
cry out from their graves to me: get right, Emily,
lest ye die in Jerusalem with your back to the Wall.
Because I have the Law and keep stroking
that calf while calling out for redemption.
Place those intersectional lines
where all these new age, yoga posing white people say the
"third eye" is located and make it big
because I want to die, here and now, to myself,
to this country/empire that preaches liberation while enslaving
the psychological and physical fields of humanity.
Let the wood of the tree
and the utilitarian tool-making destructive capacity looming
large on this planet, ever ready to spring up in my soul,
let it sit dead-center, where I cannot hide from it,
so that when You are ready, I may rise with You.