Sometimes, I consider writing
down all my sins and pinning
them to my shirt. Or maybe holding
a sandwich board that reads
“I’m not an elder’s wife,
but I play one on TV.”
I can hold a hand as hard
As I hold a smile, but is
This the real me or is the real
me the one who came before
And spit on any desire for hope
I ever had?
Then I know from the deep down,
Walking one day should-to-shoulder
With a daughter whose love is the
ephemeral whisp I keep pinching
With the tiniest bit of luck.
He made me for this moment
And all the “those moments”
That I hardly ever measure up to.
But oh how He measures me
With a generous cup, spilling over.
Spilling over.
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Ericka Clay 
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