the non-witness
You had always known it in your head. There you had built a room: the Nativity in the corner. Your parents framed at the door. In its center: a baby’s cradle. You looked through your nose. You just don’t get it. You didn’t see the Altar locked in the closet.
You sat down across from a man wrapped in Muslim. You wear a garb that was handed to you. He asked you where you received your faith.
Shit.
You had always known it in your head. There you had built a room: the Nativity in the corner. Your parents framed at the door. In its center: a baby’s cradle.
But you forgot the Altar locked in the closet.
the divorce
You had always held it in your hand. The cross you wielded like a sword, murderously struck down those who differed. You just don’t get it. You didn’t like that. You’d rather be rid of it.
The cross would be rid of it too, that kind of sword. You locked it in the closet to be forgotten. It patiently awaits the day you take it up and plunge it into your chest, so that it may finally rest where it belongs. Then, you can bleed.