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The Wages of 6 Days of Work

A day
To remember my week's work.
A day
To mourn that I must do it on the seventh as well
While preachers say rest,
And the Bible says rest,
And God says rest.

A day to weep over my wages,
Which are owed to me,
But no one pays.

6 days of diaper changing;

6 days of picking up toys;

6 days of soothing and rocking and listening to troubles and absorbing anger and feigning interest in lego creations and artwork that will clutter my house;

6 days of writing lists and selecting food and loading groceries and unloading groceries and meal planning and prepping and cooking for the ten minute scarf-down and baby spitting it out on his tray and throwing it on the floor;

6 days of sorting clothes and treating stains and loading the washer and putting towels on the line and picking up clothes and telling them to pick up their own clothes and carrying the laundry basket back and forth, back and forth, back and forth;

6 days of instructing how to wipe the pee off the toilet and how to respect my things and how to respect their things and how to speak to me and how to speak to each other and how to speak to the neighbors and how to behave in the store and how to behave in the pool and how to behave in the bathroom and the shower and the bed.

6 days of work.
6 days of my work.
6 days of my works.
The fruit of my labor
Offered to Heaven on an altar
While I shout,
Like Cain,
"Are you not satisfied?
Is that not enough?
Now give me my dues!
Give me my rest!"

A day after 6
To unveil 
That I've been keeping score,
Which is not gift-giving
Nor loving 
Nor obeying
As the law demands,
But rather my works
Of the flesh
For which the only payment
From Heaven
Must be
Even while I yell,

Oh God,
Upon this Sabbath day,
May I recall 
That my week's work
Has already been paid
Upon the cross.
And because of his blood
I need earn my rest
No longer.


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