stepping outside that saturday night
was like stepping out into Good Friday
with no resurrection in sight.
blood like baptism
and hands in supplication
and too many things broken
with one sharp cry.
she looks like jesus,
right after the crown of thorns.
i shouldn't be telling you this,
but i don't know what else to do.
i look up for help,
some sort of divine assistance
but the rooftop angels
are all made of stone
and just look down at me,
with their blank, stoney gazes,
let me know that they also think
i'm not doing enough.
and there are few times in my life
when i haven't been able to find You in a moment.
this is one of them.
why does it feel like, sometimes,
You leave your children to fend for themselves?
when You leave us,
all our choices are tinged with darkness
and it feels like we're choking on the ashes
of all our violent burnt offerings.
from here on out,
i will not accept easy answers,
least of all from You,
who created all the answers
and all the pathways.
You, who created the blood
and the bones
and the baseball bats
and the cries
and the grief.
I don't like to make demands,
least of all to You,
but I'm asking you to show yourself.
Or I'll walk out that door,
into that Good Friday,
whether or not the Resurrection ever shows up...