Soon you will say something
that will force their righteous cries
down your throat.

You cannot love man and be free.

Soon you will do something that
will force them to trap you.

They will shut up all doors to your face,
’til they can place an accusing
fingertip on your nose,
’til they can get an indignant
fingerhold on your nape.

What is it you do, then, while
you shut up all the doors yourself and wait?

Do you fancy independence?
It is a stake through your heart.
It is the mark of Cain.

Soon you will find yourself alone
in a holy funk
with only a few apostles who’ve
got it all wrong—

and then,
“What was it that great man I forget the name said?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Poor bastard; they tore his lungs out with a mudhook.”

© 1996 Catherine Weaver All rights reserved.