Exodus 33
Separated �
Stripped of mantle, stripped of crown,
stripped down to barest flesh, to bone,
only myself, and my own tone of skin grown brown
from long, hot days of march beneath the sun.
And in my void of lost identity,
in the midst of my soul�s silent plea for my people,
for the millions who look to me and for myself,
myself as leader of the grumbling horde,
a single word entreats my ear
and summons tears into my eyes.
That word, that �you,�
not they or them or even y�all . . .
no mention made of millions being led . . .
And I, for once another sheep among the flock,
empty stomach,
open mouth,
and braying to be fed.
Skeins purple, threads of red and gold
replace old cloth of brownish grey,
and weave my lost identity away.