If Again

If you can take the jeers, the insults, The hot coffee running in a scorching river Down the back of your crisp white shirt, The threats, the catcalls, The mashed potatoes and gravy Clinging to your neat-combed hair, Then maybe you’ll be a man. If you can sit in peace at diner’s counter In a cold metal chair with a blue cushion, And stand to be the object of slurs Escaping from the lips that will Sing of Christ’s love come next Sunday But today profane themselves, Stain themselves, Then maybe you’ll be a man. If you wait out the beatings, Feel the fists and the dull ache of bruises, And not strike back, Prove yourself to be a truer disciple than The ones who call you coward Because—though your hand clenches itself And half-moon marks mar your palm where Your nails bite into skin and your knuckles lighten— You won’t retaliate, Then maybe you’ll be a man. Or maybe you’ll be more than a man. Men fight because of fear, Strike like hissing snakes Coiled, alone, scared in corners. Men hurt other men because of ignorance, Just because your skin’s different, or your God Has a name that they can’t pronounce. Men hurt men just because they can. Blame the serpent. Blame Eve. Blame Adam. Blame Cain. They say you carry his mark, anyway. Doesn’t matter—it’s fallen nature, and you’ve— Well you’ve transcended it for a while. Maybe, today, you’re not a man. Maybe, today, you’re a living saint, A hero, a legend. Meekness becomes man in all ages, But where’s the Earth again?