Through me

Watch him with his naked feet. Watch him with his cracked and scaly toes. His calloused heels. Watch him slap the ground with the balls of his feet. Making contact with the tiles, rolling his feet to the rhythm of the drums, heel to toes. Rocking. Swaying. A sway that started in his ankles and shudders through his clavicles. His shoulders slump and flex. He throws back his head to the ceiling.

Palm trees and pines and the bluest Caribbean breeze. Smoke and pain in the air. And he sings. Oh he sings. He throws back his head, his throat taut and sweating. Beads glistening on the veins in his forehead. Sweat dripping down his neck past the dirty collar of a worn and faded tangerine collared cotton v neck. Watch him. Living the resurrection. Breathing in the word of Christ. He sings. He screams in my heart. Lord, I am yours. 

God, thank you for Michael.