I Don’t Forgive You

I don’t forgive you
because you taught me
forgiveness erases the past.
It makes everything right,
and if it’s not,
it’s the fault of the forgiver,
who then becomes unworthy
of giving or receiving
forgiveness.

I don’t forgive you
because you taught me
forgiveness erases all boundaries
and if I want boundaries,
then I didn’t really forgive you,
and if I don’t forgive you,
then I don’t love God,
and if I don’t love God,
then I’m a sinner,
and if I am a sinner,
then I am just as wrong as you,
and therefore,
I am unworthy
of giving or receiving
forgiveness.

I don’t forgive you
because you don’t believe

you’ve done anything
that needs

forgiving.

Beautiful Crow

The sky is a polished blue,
wearing her softest white clouds.
She makes love to the sun in front of God
and everyone.
The earth blushes
in brilliant emerald breath
held beneath sapphire eyes,
and yet,
it is the lonely cawing crow
with whom I sympathize.
Its call,
ragged and worn,
lingers in the rhythm
beating inside my chest,
trying to make sense
of a world so big,
yet so small—
like humanity’s capacity for love
and its proclivity to hate.

Your Father the Devil

Your god
points to a mass grave
where tangled Palestinian bodies
gasp for breath,
a gospel
of bullets and bloodshed
brought to bear
upon the least of these.
He is a white AR-15
mowing down children
in the second grade
while fucking little girls
of the same age—
a coward
accusing queer communities
of crimes committed
by his pastors and priests.
Your god
is an idol,
created in the likeness
of your hate.

But Grace

is a headstone
bearing your names,
buried in a landfill
for which
none of us
mourn.

Family Burial Plots

When my mother passed away in 2006,
the entire family followed suit. Not
physically as she had, but in a way that
was psychically similar. A parade of
skeletons marched out of the family
closet playing “When the Saints go
Marching In,” and we found none of us
were in that number.

They say you can’t take anything with
you when you die. Not true. My mother
took with her the gossamer veil spread
over the deep wounds carved into our
family tree by a father’s rage.

We all died that day.

Featured

The Inevitable Introduction

These are the ghosts that wander through the infinite corridors of a divergent, and admittedly, unsound mind. Some belong to a troubled past, others arise from social decay, while others are utterly fabricated. I speak them into being, bring them out for examination, and in doing so, unintentionally examine and critique myself.

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