There are deaths that begin like this: a woman
at the feet of a cross, puling; her son hangs with all
the sins of the world bursting from his heart. I have curved
myself too close to your sole, to hear what directs
your steps, that tonight you wish/need to strike me lifeless
with the might of your hate.
God knows I do not fear death. Perhaps, it is
the belief the soul is the only part of us indestructible.
So take this body, if you must, and let me journey the
Atlantic formless till I come upon another flesh warm enough
to call home. I shall return, but of what use is revenge if
I know what you have is only hate enough to stiffen you cold?

Dear God, I am coming home in an echo that escapes
my cracking bones.
I know what would be said of me: my story was
one ending with an ellipsis, each period shattering my jaw,
my coccyx, my skull. I have lived a gay man. I die
a gay man. Even now, at your feet, I am the better human
for loving. Like heat to a flame, this hate is yours alone.
Drop the weight of the sledgehammer, feel light within,
see that what can take flight is free.

Dear God, this prayer in which I am a victim I say with
a tongue that has licked clean a boy’s sin,
because the night we burned, our ashes rose
to your sight in spiralling salsa, and you saw that
it was good.

Even now, at your feet, dear homophobe, I am
the creation of the seventh day; the only truth of
the holy book. What directs you, lies to you. All I have
been, I have been from God’s mouth – the word.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash