A Sorrow Hushed. . .

My ears cleaved to the door frame
of the dining room. Her whisper was hoarse,
were there many?

Lots, he said, lots, as he held the letter
that told him what they saw.
They pushed for space, women and children
and their men for best viewing.
They wanted to see.  My people saw he said.

Their words burned my brain
as I strained to listen, afraid I wouldn’t
catch a sorrow hushed.  It didn’t last long
he said, because they fell into the pits.
Matko Bosko she said. They killed our God
he said, remember that.

And I knew the god they called
upon to save us from whatever they feared
their kids would do. They killed him,
he whispered again, somehow
making this horrid time an all right matter.
My people saw them, he kept saying.

And I loved those two
who were our parents who made things
seem right when my heart knew was evil
and my head fought them
and argued till I would vomit.

We would go into holy week and pray
just as my cousins who saw what was done
went back to their tables and had lunch
and dinner as if nothing had happened.

These were friends and relatives
whose prayers were different and
that made them different than us.

And the us that I was born into made me
sick to my stomach and I kneeled in
front of the hopper and emptied my shame
washed with the tears of I am so sorry
and threw up all of my ten years

and so went my trust.

January 18, 2018