#destructivespeech — Public Fediverse posts

The Transparent Tongue

I prayed for a transparent tongue—

not one without language,
not one emptied of conviction,
not one so pale with caution
that it could no longer name the wound,

but a tongue through which
truth might pass
without becoming a weapon.

James saw it clearly:

the small bit
turning the great horse,

the little rudder
steering the ship
through a violence of wind,

the single spark
lifting its bright red shout
into the trees.

So much ruin
from so little flesh.

Inside the mouth
a forest of ash waits.

One word,
and the branches begin to burn.

One word,
and someone carries the smoke
for years.

We bless God
with the morning hymns,

then turn before noon
and curse the likeness of God
walking beside us.

Sweet water,
bitter water,

both rising
from the same hidden spring.

I prayed for a transparent tongue,

but transparency is not
saying everything.

A window is transparent,
yet broken, it becomes
sharp and dangerous.

Light passes through it
without leaving a cut.

The transparent tongue
does not confuse cruelty
with courage,

or bluntness
with honesty,

or the pleasure of being right
with the work of righteousness.

It pauses
at the gate of the teeth.

It asks:

Will this word heal?

Will this word clarify?

Will this word protect the weak
without becoming
what it condemns?

Will this word leave room
for repentance—

including mine?

I prayed for a tongue
clear enough
that anger would not stain
every syllable,

clear enough
that fear would not bend
every meaning,

clear enough
that the old need to win
would not stand
between the speaker
and the spoken.

Not invisible.

Not innocent.

Not pure.

Only transparent enough
for mercy to be seen
moving through it.

Transparent enough
for silence to enter
when silence is wiser.

Transparent enough
for lament
to remain lament
and not harden into blame.

Transparent enough
for praise to rise
without requiring
an enemy beneath it.

The tongue is not alone.

Behind it waits the heart.

Below it, the hands.

Beyond it, the feet
that must walk
where the words have pointed.

A mouth may speak of peace
while the body prepares for war.

A mouth may bless the hungry
while the hands remain closed.

A mouth may cry justice
while the feet refuse
to cross the street.

So I prayed not only
for a transparent tongue,

but for a transparent life—

a body through which
the word and the deed
recognize each other.

Let my speech become a window,

not so others may admire
the speaker,

but so they may glimpse
something gentler
standing behind me.

Let the tongue become
a small clear pane
in the house of the soul.

Let light enter.

Let light leave.

And when the spark comes—

as sparks will—

let it kindle warmth
instead of wilderness,

a lamp
instead of a pyre,

a fire around which
enemies might sit long enough
to remember one another
as human.

I prayed for a transparent tongue,

and heard no answer
except the next word
waiting to be spoken.

So I held it
for one breath longer,

turned it toward the light,

and asked whether grace
could pass through.