RESH: a poem

I remember crying as a boy

to my father who rested my head

in his lap as the tears collected over his thigh,

a new wet bruise from where my eyes

had been. I can’t remember what I cried about—

the pain or loss I must have felt—

but I know now that faith has lost me

and burned me of my energy.

Hiding has become a game for you and me—

you know the one we always play

where we walk into the woods—you hide

but only after beating me to my knees.

Then you call my name and I must

find you, punch-drunk, broken in my stumbling.

I crawl searching and try to reason but nothing

in my head can make sense of this.

You sting me with the sounds of my own name

every time you call me through the trees.

Father, my head doesn’t need the beatings,

my head doesn’t need you at all

and I can pick your truths away

like petals on a flower and decide

how much your love means to me. You want

everything I have—my words unwritten,

the clean white of my mind, purity,

and questions answered only in my faith.

And though I don’t want to remember

any of your words, they never leave—

all are here, left clear as tears, icons

to my own devotion—they break me—

even when my mind says no, I only

want to answer you with yes.