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.

Letters to the Dead

There were days I wrote you
out, dropped you like a feather
and ran. I’d hoped to leave you
behind me, but you were my
favorite quill. The very worst
of my Hell.

I always come back for you,
to dip you in the murky eyed
ink called memory. Even now,
I write your name across the
breadth of these wrists, hoping
to set free all this bitterness.

Some say I keep your ghost
alive in letters left by your
graveside, but this ink
reminds me why I left home—
to exorcise you and them
from my bones.

We Are Yet Ghosts

We speak like ghosts to keep alive
the cemeteries buried in our throats
because, even after all this time,
there are still some things we are not
yet ready to let go—like the hatchet
we use to open up old wounds. We
confuse mausoleums for museums
where in place of paintings we hang
like criminals. Our skeletons are on
full display, broken and unclean. Both
of our hands are bloody.

While you’ve lingered in that old house,
haunting its halls like a presence known
only by trails of sunflower shells and
the phantom drones of imaginary flight
patterns, I have clawed my way through
the dirt to rise above the earth to find
my way from death to life. I do not yet
know if it is too late for you, but I have
exorcized your demon from my soul,
and one day, hopefully, I might finally
let go.

A Tired Mom

God’s not dead,
She’s just tired
Of all this Hell
We put ourselves through.
It was never meant
To be like this,
The hurt.
But like so many new parents,
She’s still learning.
She’s still growing up,
So be gentle,
Because this
Is new for all of us.
We are all
Making this up.
So, please,
Let go of the guilt
Held hostage
Over your hearts,
Because someone
Has to teach God
How to let go of a grudge.

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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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