Could not look up to my Father,
as he ignored my plea.
Closed door, black shoes, “beautiful feet,”
some things recalled clearly.
No control with his ordained hands—
rosary on the ground.
Hand on my mouth and in my pants—
silence the only sound.
In that moment I lost my faith,
mass does not make me free.
Trauma partitions the work of
Jesus Christ on the tree.
Quelled lust for men that made him sin?
Or the lack of a wife?
Two virgins losing innocence,
me, much sooner in life.
Don’t know why I let him do it.
I froze. I did not flee.
Suppose I was taught to desire
the hands of God on me.
Our Father, who art in heaven,
O, hallowed be thy name;
thy kingdom come, thy will be done,
to priests who do the same.
Copyright © 2020 by Stephen Poindexter. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Notes From R.K.
Thank you, Stephen, for being brave and vulnerable. My heart goes out to you and everyone who can connect with this poem from personal experiences. You are not just a survivor of your past but a hero for all of our futures. Thank you.