John 11:35

You called me Your son and I call You Father,
ignorant in my childhood
what it meant

as my mother bent over, crying
about how she didn’t even know Your touch.
She, who was so close to You, that You left her
just me.
He’s in paradise, dear, and He won’t come here
to this place, this one-slip from Hell.

I want to make You proud
for I am Yours in the trinity
of blood, flesh, and hope
that I am truly Your son.
So let me work in Your name

I’ll shout at waves and wind,
touch disease and demons
that will always haunt my own
what-ifs until
I crack that stone temple, and breathe
Your words into the crowd who hates me, who loves me
enough to kill me on those cross roads, those beams for You,
so I can cry a mixture of heartbreak and euphoria, shouting
My God, my God, why can’t I forsake You?