Where Were You?
No reckoning.
No trial.
No witness.
A brother.
Secrecy.
Night.
Sleep.
A father.
Hands for hitting.
Never holding.
Not once.
Not one embrace.
Sometimes I imagine it.
His arms around me.
His hand on my shoulder.
My head against his chest.
My father.
Me.
His son.
And something breaks.
I wanted a brother.
Not someone to fear.
A brother.
Someone who loved me.
A mother who heard me.
Who came toward me.
Instead,
I spoke.
They vanished.
Ghosted.
Family.
What a word.
Sunday morning.
Clean shirts.
Bibles.
Folded hands.
Bowed heads.
God is love.
God is good.
God sees everything.
Does he?
Children are hurt.
Birds sing.
Church bells ring.
People eat dinner.
Grow old.
Die.
No reckoning.
I hate that.
I hate this world
for allowing it.
Under the rage,
a boy.
Not asking for heaven.
Not asking for miracles.
Dad.
Hold me.
Brother.
Love me.
Mom.
Believe me.
Three small prayers.
No answer.
So,
a courtroom.
No preacher.
No hymns.
No stained glass.
No Bible.
One chair.
Put God in it.
Sit.
Look at me.
You saw?
You heard?
You knew?
Where were you?
When I needed a father.
Where were you?
When I needed a brother.
Where were you?
When I needed my mother.
Where were you
when I spoke
and they erased me?
Answer.
Nothing.
An empty chair.
Maybe
that is
the verdict.
