The wickedness of the absolute—the kernel aflame—to know
a person deserves the hell you bring; so decided, so raw, like wartime. The lakes
are rumbling, hungering for rebuttal, just plain justification—not eternal
feelings, albeit, we have little else to go on. Souls’ churning. Silence
effusion. The preacher is trying to decode the skies: it’s been raining for
centuries. So great a battle inside—so little the clearance—so much the mercy.
Longing to insist upon the boundaries. (Most know: they need to see a person
crumble: just enduring with resilience is an affront: one is left to appraise:
What have people of color been doing?) Some are born into resistance and
resilience and rescue. Others are born to certain privileges, universal
endorsement, indeed, cultural submission—this might be said of us all. The
tyranny of the absolute. The insistence of the missile. Smoke, lava, and ash:
the river mud is flaming hot. So much a way to say some things: if to reach
some souls. In honesty, the child shouldn’t need to look downtrodden after a
punishment—we call it child abuse! Moreover, if loving a person is filled with guile
and misunderstanding, we soon become guile and misunderstanding.
