11-19-2017, 05:59 AM
First Edit:
Sunday School
I
Wine sipped in an unlit room,
to spill any is a sin.
The bottle shapes liquid
like a good parent should.
Father, where are the others?
Father, what's that?
Questions asked like a child.
II
Silence gives answers I'd rather ignore,
darkness tries to offer absolution,
but then dreams convert to memories:
He used to leer at me.
My blonde hair flowed through his fingers
like gold at the end of a rainbow.
My tears the rain that ruined it,
their anger thunder without lightning.
The light comes on, flickering like his stutter,
salvation a lie my parents sold me
so they could buy a paper from their priest.
III
I became a snowflake
in spring,
pushed away
by god's breath,
surrounded by those
who only cared
about their descent.
The ground
where I belong.
IV
The wine burns now.
After so many years
there is staining, my hair is white,
untouched.
Unanswered prayers buried beneath grass,
their bodies rotted, unrecognizable.
More years pass before I find the right words
to tell someone about the corpses,
the ways of childhood finally behind me.
Original:
Sunday School
I
Wine sipped in an unlit room,
to spill any is a sin.
The mug shapes the liquid
like a good parent should.
“Father, is it Christmas yet?”
“Father, when is Easter?”
Old questions I'd like to think
are make-believe.
II
Silence gives answers I'd rather ignore,
darkness supports it with a devilish smile.
The light comes on, flickering like his stutter,
salvation a lie my parents sold me
so they could buy a paper from their priest.
He used to leer at me, they never noticed.
My blonde hair flowed through his fingers
like gold at the end of a rainbow.
My tears the rain that ruined it,
their anger thunder without lightning.
III
I am a snowflake
in spring,
pushed away
by god's breath,
surrounded by those
who only care
about their descent.
I will fall
and melt.
IV
The wine burns now,
the whole way down,
even worse when it comes out.
There is staining, my hair is white,
untouched.
Unanswered prayers dead in the grass,
the body dismembered, violated,
unrecognizable to loved ones.
I'm the one who found the corpse,
thought it sleeping,
played tough with the authorities
only to cry myself to sleep,
afraid to dream.
Sunday School
I
Wine sipped in an unlit room,
to spill any is a sin.
The bottle shapes liquid
like a good parent should.
Father, where are the others?
Father, what's that?
Questions asked like a child.
II
Silence gives answers I'd rather ignore,
darkness tries to offer absolution,
but then dreams convert to memories:
He used to leer at me.
My blonde hair flowed through his fingers
like gold at the end of a rainbow.
My tears the rain that ruined it,
their anger thunder without lightning.
The light comes on, flickering like his stutter,
salvation a lie my parents sold me
so they could buy a paper from their priest.
III
I became a snowflake
in spring,
pushed away
by god's breath,
surrounded by those
who only cared
about their descent.
The ground
where I belong.
IV
The wine burns now.
After so many years
there is staining, my hair is white,
untouched.
Unanswered prayers buried beneath grass,
their bodies rotted, unrecognizable.
More years pass before I find the right words
to tell someone about the corpses,
the ways of childhood finally behind me.
Original:
Sunday School
I
Wine sipped in an unlit room,
to spill any is a sin.
The mug shapes the liquid
like a good parent should.
“Father, is it Christmas yet?”
“Father, when is Easter?”
Old questions I'd like to think
are make-believe.
II
Silence gives answers I'd rather ignore,
darkness supports it with a devilish smile.
The light comes on, flickering like his stutter,
salvation a lie my parents sold me
so they could buy a paper from their priest.
He used to leer at me, they never noticed.
My blonde hair flowed through his fingers
like gold at the end of a rainbow.
My tears the rain that ruined it,
their anger thunder without lightning.
III
I am a snowflake
in spring,
pushed away
by god's breath,
surrounded by those
who only care
about their descent.
I will fall
and melt.
IV
The wine burns now,
the whole way down,
even worse when it comes out.
There is staining, my hair is white,
untouched.
Unanswered prayers dead in the grass,
the body dismembered, violated,
unrecognizable to loved ones.
I'm the one who found the corpse,
thought it sleeping,
played tough with the authorities
only to cry myself to sleep,
afraid to dream.
Time is the best editor.