“I wanted to hold captive those I loved,
but I wanted them happy in their captivity.”
— Gabrielle Roy (Street of Riches)
Neither hell nor tortured soul can fill it
at least not all. Certainly not absolution
its very definition assuming guilt.
And not promises to undo past wrongs
empty sacks of sin, let go a bleak past
be more selfless, start over, begin.
Create new me, wash the old away
become giving, innocent, pure.
Serene in sweet knowledge sullied slights
won’t ever plague me again.
Be swept upward by a mourning wind
assent monitored by rogue priests
fly-fishing for trust. No real rescue
can come from under queen bed
or earthquake-kit complete with condoms
aspirin, sunscreen, six-pack of Spam.
Certainly not from fake promises
do yoga poses correctly, shun mouth-breathing
always flash an inner smile. Good drugs
help me sleep, weather storms of anguish
float bloated streams of despair. Tonight
I’ll dream I’m redeemed, worthy of love too.
Assign a modicum of penance — by dawn
weave MERCY, all capital letters
in Braille, on a forgiving loom.
THROE
Always plural, dictates the norm
overrides me in my latest crisis
suffering acutest of all possible throes.
No help knowing I am faced
with likelihood of a gruesome end.
Nor solace, my prediction as a kid
I would likely barely live until now
and did. Regrettably, time enough
for new faults like contempt, sarcasm, hate
with consequences I also knew
would arrive, yet failed to avoid. So, now
I’m throeing here in a time of vast rot
wrought by a demented, would-be king.
Throes would have me jump in front
of the big rig I pretend I’m driving