The Yearning

I've heard it said: ask forgiveness later.
             Which means do what, exactly, beforehand?
Haven't we at one time or other wished to end
              the terrible suffering of another—a wound
beyond repair, the animal whose body crashed
              into a car in a dark country lane, the speckled
trail of blood leading into the even darker woods?
              Trespass is a word I first learned in prayer—
forgive us this thing we do, that others also do
               unto us. Haven't we gathered into our arms
the ones whose voices broke at the threshold,
               when the fence could no longer hold against
the flood? Before absolution, our bodies long
               to enter each other's grief, to gather
what can still be gathered, to stay awake or sit
               beside. Often it feels hopeless, but we
offer water.  Forage for whatever might give balm.