Or rather I left a voicemail
I found the number you scribbled down
All those years ago
When I would time my Sunday nap
with the sermon
When I asked why God would let
Trayvons die and Zimmermans live
What good is the promise of salvation
when my skin is synonymous with death
Prayer was not formed to prosper
Against the weapons formed against me
A son forlorn in a desolate land
cursed by Ham
Unable to strip tar off my wings
binding me to the earth
As Black Madonnas weep at the feet of their Only Sons
sacrificial lambs destined for slaughter
Did Mary pray?
When her government crucified
and placed Him between two thieves
I wonder what she sang in her heart
through maternal tears
Was it for the end to all suffering?
The head of Pontious Pilate?
Where is room for reverence
when hopelessness wraps his arms around you
like an old friend?
What do you pray for Mom?
Did you pray that I’d grow up happy?
Because I did. But sometimes I’m not.
Did you pray that I’d find love?
Because I did. And I’m still working on that.
Did you pray that I’d find the number you left me?
Because I did. But I was always afraid to dial it.
Would he remember me?
So often I heard the story of
The Begotten Son
A Catholic School Classic
As I flip through the pages of my life
I often see that there is no editor
A lack of curation and guidance
that resulted in many errors
Eventually, writer’s block sets in
I can’t go on anymore
Or rather
I don’t know how to go on anymore
I had squandered my inheritance
And returned to the only place
I knew for shelter
My Father’s House