Eight years old I knew.
Fourteen years old I spoke up.
Which left six years.
Six years of scraping up the meanings in the speeches.
Six years of mother’s eyes glaring down at me
six years of being tone deaf to the alter
as they were falling to their knees.
But I could never see the power in his hateful symmetry
and I never felt the need to see him bleed.
Six years of congregations dancing gospels
as they hoped for a refrain.
But I couldn’t see the glory when I read between the lines.
And they were climbing paper mountain triumphs
to strip away their sins.
But humanity is a permanent mark on the skin.