Father O'Mine

Why wasn’t I saved?

Why haven’t you saved me, Father O’Mine?

I hear if I doubt you, 

I’ll be sent to hell. 

I’ll be seated with The Devil;

Satan;

Lucifer. 

The stories I’ve heard. Oh, God, the stories. 

Tortured for all eternity. 

Chained and shackled. 

My skin and limbs torn from my muscles and sockets. 

Won’t you save me, Father O’Mine?

You’re there

on the wooden cross. 

Nailed. Chained. Crucified. 

Out of the corner of my sight, 

there lies

A smaller crucifix, 

just for my eyes. 

Father O’Mine, why can’t I see you?

The tiny body attached to my hands gives itself to you.

As if I were plated meat.

Roasted to perfection, dressed, and served to those damn— those Goddamn— pastors

who’ll ensure my spot in heaven 

for this tender sacrifice.

Where are you?

I’ve been sent to the slaughter; 

the preacher shooed me away.

Did you see?

A little lamb, sent to foolishly pray.

Why can’t you save me?

Father O’Mine, where have you gone?

Mother claims her tongue is tied to you.

Dad says he’s a “casual believer.”

Great-Nana thinks any unbaptized baby goes to hell.

Gram and Papa think I’ll come around— then I can see you.

Once I come around, rid myself of the sin of being human, then I can see you.

Once I strip myself of my humanity, 

leaving nothing but my cold, shivering bones, 

my sin, exposed and scalding hot,

then I can see you.

After I atone for the crimes I committed while hardly a concept,

will I see you?
Will you save me, Father O’Mine?