Cries like Bathsheba

I never understood it.

That ecclesiastical reverence

That phantasmal belief

That overpowering faith.

I remember too small shoes

And a sweater vest that scratched my neck

Like the Nemean lion,

And a quiet frustration as the clock ticked Sunday away.

She calls out at night,

In a quiet hex, that when light meets dark

And the skies are brightening into margarine

That He has risen, and things will be okay, now.

Whatever that means.

I understand that they confess their fears

That eat at them over and again

Like fleas on a stray cat

Itching itself on the last lamppost in town.

I used to scoff.

I used to sour my face and breathe indignancies

When they offered to pray for me

When the world seemed too dark to bear.

And I feel like there’s a lie being told

To boys, like me,

Who ask for help when no one is around,

And rejoice in their own quiet ways.

That someone knows my name,

And all my hideous mistakes,

And that the sigh of wind slashes

The chorus of angels

In half

But never alone.