by Kaitlyn Newbery
Fingers, reach; arms, reach; body, reaches; soul. Shoeless, clothesless, foodless, less. Needing, pleading, she grabs my hand, asking for the smallest bit of anything. Scavenging slave, slumming orphan deserted, discarded, bastard of humanity. Thrown out and throw away, she begs. Beckons. Aches. Asks. Thirsts. I skirt past, no handouts. No contribution. No acknowledgement. Where is this “God”? Fingers, shake; arms, shake; body, shakes; soul. Shoeless, coatless, homeless, less. Mumbling, fumbling, he mutters drunken words, crying for help the only way he understands. Reeking wreck, wretched man forgotten, forbidden, reject of the masses. Outcast and cast out, he sits. Shakes. Waits. Wants. Hungers. I continue walking, no eye contact. No pauses. No acknowledgement. Where is this “God”? Fingers, cling; arms, cling; body, clings; soul. Sleepless, worthless, shameless, less. Growling, scowling, she stares as I turn my face, thinking neither of us wants my pity. Beckoning beacon, brazen whore scorned, shunned, disgrace of society Overused and used up, she glares. Grimaces. Breaks. Bears. Needs. I walk away, no conversation. No offer of hope. No acknowledgement. Where is this “God”? Where is this “God”? I skirt past; I continue walking; I walk away.
Kaitlyn Newbery is an adjunct English professor at University of the Cumberlands. She enjoys exploring questions about her faith through metaphors and storytelling.