How sad it is that half a century I have walked

briskly with impatience past my own story. . .

Where I have no loathing for it, I find mostly

passive contempt. Failure. Loveless hubris

overriding whatever achievement felt

too little to mark, insubstantial like my self

as during each beating my mother and step

father condemned me . . . worthless, feckless,

lazy, stupid, and blind to righteousness . . .

I knew it was lies. Since age four I knew.

But I never knew how to protect myself

from their false truths, nor how to foster

my own truths within the soul they assured me

was filthy and wicked and evil beyond any

Redemption but that of Almighty Jesus. . .

They taught me to be a warrior, Joy,

but only against myself and faith and love

sans allies, for none could be trusted. None.

No one. Not a soul. Not a body. Not an angel.

No god or higher being could extract us from hell

save Jesus and Jesus alone. Our Jesus

of the flatbread. Our Jesus of the not-wine.

Our Jesus of the cowpeas and the sulfur springs

our Jesus of the bullies and the State of bullies

our Jesus of the screaming ass-beaters

our Jesus of the VBS bus and songs

of humility which lyrics we learned by osmosis

our Jesus of the white charity meant

never for those in need, oh Jesus of bootstraps

O Jesus of never swearing, O Jesus of never

speaking our truth lest the overseers beat

us with straps, strops, boards, or willow switches…

God made the apples free to fall from the trees

but not for you, not for me, not for free . . .

Joy, can you sing me hope in the world’s ending?

Can you show me the silver lining in the cloud

whence Zeus cast his killing spear of lightning?

Can you tell me the story of the earth

holding me to its bosom and rocking me

ever to any gentle night of sleep unencumbered

by dreams of blood and violence and fire?

Flowers and fruit rot. Rainbows flee. Love dies

ten million deaths within the eyes of everyone

and hope is a slippery slope on the banks

of that fabled river where the aggrieved

shall gather to see their hated enemies

relegated to the flames of the hell they

populate, propagate, and perpetuate.

How can you buoy us, Joy?

What magic is in your words so mighty

that you quench those flames and set our tables

with loaves and fish and honeyed hopes our hearts

take as nontoxic truth? I thank you for you

for your courage to share and speak and love

beyond the scope of skin, neither forgetting

nor forgiving, but understanding that

we are in a chapter separate from those

whose narratives were violence and blood

and now we are the narrators, and we write

our story of love overcoming greed . . .

Greed that has eaten the world we knew

Diminishing it and us

To this waste of dust

DMPitchford 112925