Mom, I Talked To God Today

Or rather I left a voicemail

I found the number you scribbled down 

All those years ago

When I would time my Sunday nap

with the sermon

When I asked why God would let

Trayvons die and Zimmermans live

What good is the promise of salvation

when my skin is synonymous with death

Prayer was not formed to prosper

Against the weapons formed against me

A son forlorn in a desolate land

cursed by Ham

Unable to strip tar off my wings

binding me to the earth

As Black Madonnas weep at the feet of their Only Sons

sacrificial lambs destined for slaughter

Did Mary pray? 

When her government crucified 

and placed Him between two thieves

I wonder what she sang in her heart

through maternal tears

Was it for the end to all suffering? 

The head of Pontious Pilate? 

Where is room for reverence

when hopelessness wraps his arms around you

like an old friend? 

What do you pray for Mom?

Did you pray that I’d grow up happy? 

Because I did. But sometimes I’m not. 

Did you pray that I’d find love? 

Because I did. And I’m still working on that. 

Did you pray that I’d find the number you left me? 

Because I did. But I was always afraid to dial it.

Would he remember me? 

So often I heard the story of 

The Begotten Son

A Catholic School Classic

As I flip through the pages of my life

I often see that there is no editor

A lack of curation and guidance

that resulted in many errors

Eventually, writer’s block sets in 

I can’t go on anymore

Or rather

I don’t know how to go on anymore

I had squandered my inheritance 

And returned to the only place 

I knew for shelter

My Father’s House