MY MOTHER IS THE ROCK, THE MOUNTAIN, SISYPHUS
and god not me
I am only a person
like any other
cursed to witness
my mother’s suffering
to watch now from the ground
relieved to no longer be on her back
and having been on her back
to grieve both for how I burdened her
and for how she never let go
of that stupid rock
THE WICKEDNESS OF GOD
and when they were enslaved he meant to step in raise
hell fire smite and plague but then lifting his fist
he heard them cries that hooked something
he hadn’t felt till then or if he had felt had tried
not to feel to deny as humans deny themselves
thinking it will make them good—but
having no need for goodness he just
stood there tightening his fist so that the nails
spoke crescents into his palms
while the music took him you think
he hated negroes but I swear he favors them
hated the brutality really closed his eyes
so he wouldn’t have to see it happen same way he did
when they were dragging his son bloody onto the cross
THE WICKEDNESS OF GOD
when they were dragging his son bloody
behind the pick up truck the crowd gathering
along the side of the road and around the tree
waiting to get their piece god didn’t bother pretending
he would cut the boy loose or even that he should
he had become practiced in cruelty and knew
how this boy’s mother could sing a church down
if she was hurting good enough and god had been hurting
for her to loose even one good wail and doesn’t everyone
deserve a treat? would you feel better
if I said he had a hell warming for the crowd
who cheered as the boy begged for his life?
what precisely do you want from a father
determined to beat his own wickedness from his child?
