by Cynthia Pitman

I was a broken woman,
riddled with flaws.
I crawled to the top
of the stone stairs
and placed myself
on the alabaster altar there.
I steadied myself
for self-sacrifice,
but my hand was stayed
before it could strike.
God spoke.
Forgiveness was mine.
Eyes opened, I stumbled back down
to the ground.
Here is where I stay,
covered with scars
that evidence the Grace
that led me to this new place.
Wounds anew abound,
but they, too, will heal.
I need not return to the altar.
I need only to face the wind,
close my eyes,
and breathe Grace in.

---

Cynthia Pitman, author of The White Room, Blood Orange, and Breathe (Aldrich Press, Kelsay Books), has been published in Amethyst Review, Ekphrastic Review, Third Wednesday (One Sentence Poem finalist), Saw Palm (Pushcart Prize nominee) and others, and in Vita Brevis anthologies Pain and Renewal, Brought to Sight & Swept Away, What is All This Sweet Work? and Nothing Divine Dies.