Washed

[LeoVictorBriones (poetremains)]

Washed

Grandpa could preach, boy! Could he preach!

Have you dipped your soul in blood of the lamb,
cleansed your heart beneath water?

Congregants of jeans,
Pendelton’s and construction boots—

Roar like a bugle,
Shout like a holy trumpet!

Then they drive home in a rainstorm.

See the dirt smeared faces of kids
along the road think,
“In America their are no muddy paths for the saved.”

We sit for coffee.
Take in three scoops of backbiting.

Speak of earthquakes and wars.
But mostly rumors.

If the heart of a heartless man
was written in parchment,
we have forgotten how to read.

Then get to the point.

You tell me it was the same feeling
you got when you told your Mama
where you worked,

“Family planning.
No darling, baby killing!”

There was no compromise,
no but I love you anyway,
just a prayer to exorcise the demons.

She just seventeen,
wearing a plaid Catholic schoolgirl skirt
and picking her braces like it’s a nervous tick.
“So I tell her that God
doesn’t need to forgive her for waiting for babies.
And then gives me that look and I say to her,

“It’s okay to have sex and enjoy yourself,
that why God made it feel so good.”

I hand her the little round case of pills,
she looks at me like I was a prophet.

“Hardly any irony there,” you say.
After all it was a divine revelation for you too.

We chuckle.
You reach for your chest and rub just above your sternum.
You tell me you can almost feel it in there.

B-cell Lymphoma, Stage 2.

“Hell if they would have said stage 4.
I still would have beaten this thing,”
you pronounce as if
the sound of a pounding drum
crosses a starless night.

“Mama says it’s God testing me.
But I know she means punishing.”

You reach underneath the table
and grab my hand.

The table shakes. Our coffee almost spills.

“God doesn’t punish his children.
Doesn’t turn us into pillars of salt.

I mean I just wanted all these poor girls
to make it, not be burdened with a thousand
kids before they even had a chance to start.

I’m not a sinner am I?”

I squeeze your hand a little bit harder.

Say, “No, you just chose life.”

[Marion Poirier]

Leo, there seems to be two themes to this
poem; although they are connected, it
seems vague the way it's written.
The "you" in the poem seems to come
out of nowhere without an introduction.
In the line, we sit for coffee, would be
the place for the introduction. I think
you are trying to say too much in one
poem, hopping from one topic to the
next, but that's just my approach (to focus).

Could use tightening but overall
interesting write; vivid portrayals
in the first part of poem-could stand alone.
Marion

[mfwilkie]

Still mulling this, Leo.

[Tina (Firefly)]

I sure would like to hear this as a spoken word piece, Leo. 'Cause I think you have something powerful to say..it's just that right now it's a bit of a ramble, try from a different approach with a little less obscurity.,

[mfwilkie]

Leo,

I sort of agree with Tina about this working as a spoken word piece but I wouldn't try to clear it up beyond line and stanza construction and maybe eyeing verb tense.

Speak of
Talk over rumors, earthquakes and wars.
But mostly rumors.