I am tempted—
not by God, but by the hollow hum
beneath my ribs: a silent scream,
a whisper like a blade.

It strokes my skin with phantom hands,
drags its teeth along my bones,
swears it knows my name.

Come, it says, I’ll make you feel alive.
So I sit.
I let the hunger gnaw.

Where would I run?
What fool fights the wind?
I clench my fists, press keys instead—
each letter a nail in its coffin.

God, strike the match.
Let this want burn.

It's June the 9th—
I'm pensive about having
a figure so significant.

I've watched my dad pull an engine
from a Nissan Sunny, alone—
fix it, reinstall it, alone.

I've watched my dad shirtless every morning,
praying in tongues.
We never owned a rooster,
never needed an alarm—
only my dad's voice, praying in tongues.

When my dad speaks, I fall silent.
I become a fool—
a listening fool.

I've watched my dad move shrewdly:
once, when school opened
but money wouldn't stretch,
he bought old batteries,
sold them as scrap
the same day—
so I could pay my fees.

I'm pensive about having
a figure so significant.

I'm baffled
by his patience.
He sits in rooms thick with noise,
conversations crashing over each other,
but barely speaks—
still, patient.

I praise my dad.

If I must choose,
I choose war—
Right hand against left,
Infants against beasts—
If every cause is just.

You, who repay faithlessness with faithfulness,
Who make your rain fall on both the wicked and the righteous,
Causing their reward to shine like the dawn.

So sacred, so pure—
Blinding Glory beyond words,
For to attempt description is to tread upon blasphemy.

You have chosen the needy,
Recognized the broken,
Preserved the sinful upon your paths,
And from the poor, fashioned eternal riches.