Sentencing | Sojourners

Sentencing

I

God has descended,
the jail door has opened,
and I am filled with doubt.

II

I am praying again.
Yesterday,
as I approached the frozen reservoir,
the sun's rays reflecting silver,
I crossed myself,
thanking Him.

I listen to Gregorian chants,
but I am often uneasy
with my hours alone.

When I can't steal more of them,
I am afraid
I'll lose myself.

Life, I know,
is no monastery.

III

The bouquet of relativity
still entices,

but I am intoxicated
by a vision and afraid.

IV

On our bedroom wall,
I have hung a cross,

a beautiful cross of seashells,
(now mostly empty patches
of long-dried glue)

and the body of Christ painted gold
(now chipped and tilted,
one nail missing).

My mother says I cried
begging her to buy it,
when I was eight or nine.

V

I am reflecting
on what I am
silence
echoes in my ears,
like the angry phone I unhook
or will not answer.

I listen for a
stranger's voice.

VI

drunk incestuous pessimism
leers at me

and I leer back
knowing that our
breast-pressing loneliness
is what appalls us

corridors of sleep
still beckon
rows of beds
in overheated rooms

I am often tired

VII

Words are insufficient.

VIII

In my drawers,
I find notes
from some of you, words
weary with silence,
unanswered.

I can see your faces,
hear your voices,
pale with reproach.

IX

I fear you will listen,
will understand,
will not respond,
will hope for a change in my condition,

will think of me as
driven.

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