the red stone cathedral with
stained glass surrounded
by raw pine picket fence holds
a withered priest
armed with wine and candy
sacrificing a fumbling lamb.
with closed copper hands
kneeling on a soiled rug
in a window facing
west—covered in black
curtains—i ask God, why?
the stifling reply
is always,
not now.
the eggshell, ashen house
with the rouge shutters
with the sharp
lawn and azalea-covered gate,
shelters a fawn with black eye
and brown iris.
i take my maroon bible
to the sanctuary on Sundays
dressed in polyester and piousness
and I always sit in the sixth wooden pew
and sing hymns. In between
songs I ask, why?
i’m told it’s
not my business to know.
the nondescript flat
on 36th near Calvert Street
holds a mother with dead hopes
and a cub she reminds
was a mistake from birth.
he burrows under wooden floors
hiding from her, mirrors
and hunters.
i sit at the shaven oak table
& the goblet is always half-empty.
no one should need the deliverance
from splintering crosses
since no one asked
to enter tragic, gray delivery rooms.
I get frustrated
because we all are charged
the high cost of
Adam and Eve’s
flaming apple.
i’ve waited my whole life for a refund or a redo.
Randy Brooks is an MFA graduate from the University of Baltimore and currently teaches American Literature in the Atlanta Metro area. He has been published in several online literary journals including Blue & Yellow Dog & Smile, Hon, You’re In Baltimore!
Powerful poem because of the unusual, original descriptive words–which pull on into the theological/philosophical conundrums. Very user friendly difficult poem:-) Thanks.