THE PRODIGAL
I come alive to clattering pots and pans.
Scattered dreams lay on the couch in the living room.
The first thing that kisses my lips is a prayer,
Being born in a Christian home will teach you that Faith is a clasping of hands and a closing of eyes, a knowing,
And Hope? A returning in-exchange –
For torn dignity, old scandals, and bitter pills are not all you get, there’s more,
There’s a kindness,
A belittling of letdowns,
Shared understanding that on some days, your pride will be the only thing holding you up, mountains will not move no matter what you do
You will bully your emotions, and they will feign ignorance,
Rephrase the same prayer on bended knees weeping to a God who already knows what you want,
You will know that outside these walls, there’s a city waiting to welcome you to your Galilee,
So you will flee, refuse to stop running,
Teach your tongue to unlearn those prayers, unbend those knees, and unclasp those hands.
But you will forget Jonah.
You will think you can do it,
Be the lucky one to shine those dreams of yours with your dusty old talents, as if you forgot who gave them to you.
String them around your neck like a talisman, and think anyone would care to look at them… or you.
You will forget pots and pans,
You will forget couch,
You will forget kneeling & clasping & praying…
But He will remind you.
——
THE PARADOX OF BEING ALIVE
I have an abundance of peace-keeping wars, nestled in the nook of my arms.
1. MY FATHER’S SINS
My father sins. Sins, which I must forgive. Ugly and purple, and putrid, neatly tucked behind every scripture. He is my father, he is better than his father.
And so I abide.
2. THE MOTHER
My mother and her children are always up to something. She preaches love, but her sermons are heavy with the guilt she has refused to put down. She will bury everything ugly underneath. The truth is in her Adam’s apple; it might kill her to spit it out. It will kill her to swallow.
She hums a lullaby; she is just as helpless as the epitaph they have all written today.
Stubborn, rebellious, black sheep, dying, dying, dead.
3. THE SELF
I am wrong for knowing. Wrong for acting, and wrong for staying. I should’ve spoken sooner, should’ve called… I… should’ve rebelled. I should’ve gone hoarse from calling out every. Single. One. Of. Their. Names.
I should’ve stayed alive.
——
Poetry (c) Edwin Favour
Image: Jo Justino Pixabay