Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Sequences & Ratios III
God hates gays, they are all going to hell, his bomb drops in class,
regardless of shrapnel, This is how i was raised, so this is how it is,
and nothing you can say can ever make a difference.
And at fourteen, he's secure in his conviction, force fed ignorance,
by the same man who froze his dog in the ice box, before burning him.
Trust no one, because you are the only one you can depend on, and difference
is just another reason to the son of the sun, on whose back he beats on.
We both lean on the edge of a plexiglas box, full of pledges
people make at the end of the Holocaust museum. Unable to speak,
with nothing needing to be spoken, raw and reeling, laid open
by witnessing just what the seeds planted within of him are saying
when allowed to germinate.
His body rocks with contractions at what is being birthed
in the broken places and he can't fill his lungs with air fast enough
to fight the clench of held breath when the epiphany, a stuttering utterance
equivalent to a keening wail of how wrong he is and what he was taught
vomits forth in an endless stream on my shoulder as i hug him.
It's going to be ok, i repeat, over and over again until the storm of emotion
abates and in the box before us, mixed in among the other promises made
in the face of such an ugly truth, one girl the same age as him spelled it:
I pledge to remind me everday I am beutiful.
And the difference is, now he is beginning to see it too.
Closing out the story of my trip to DC, by bringing in the whole reason i took my friend in the first place. Connecting the Sequences and Ratios. Thanks for taking the hard road with me.
Tagged into Theme Thursday and Imperfect Prose.