I Waited for the Hammer

They gave me a bucket,

a mop,

a moment.

Said, "Clean this wing, Scarver."

Didn’t know I was already cleaning something bigger.

Didn’t know what I’d been praying for.

He whistled while he scrubbed.

Dahmer.

Humming like it was Sunday,

like he hadn’t boiled boys in bathtubs.

Like he hadn’t kept ribs in the fridge.

Like God didn’t see it.

The other—Anderson—

beat his wife, blamed two Black men.

Wrote the lie right into her grave.

Said he needed redemption.

But they all say that

when the bars are shut.

So I listened.

To the floor’s echo.

To the voice in my spine.

To the voice that’s not mine

but deeper,

older.

The weight of steel in my hand

wasn’t revenge.

It was balance.

Judgment in the laundry room.

They say I lost my mind.

They say I was crazy.

But madness doesn’t pray like I do.