(W)hole
(for S.G. and J.R. – dead from Crohn's disease)
I knew Stan and Jack but
But their lives were not
Filled in. They were half dug.
It's not right.
We are made to dig
And then fill in the hole
Complete to finish the chore.
That's how we come to know
Who we are. It's about emptying
And filling. Kenosi. Pleroma.
Via Negativa. And Via Positiva
And I'm not sure but they both
Got screwed when it came to emptying
Holes deeper than any body ever needed.
Bodies filled with scars, holes and tattoos
Of grief. Hard hues and dues. Pain's paint chips.
I miss them. And you know what scares me?
I'm still digging too and feeling closer to them both.
There's this hole deeper than I'll need.
And I'm tired of dirt in my shoes and neath my nails.
You know, it's hard to see God
From the ignorant end of a slit trench
Or a grave.
Yea, perhaps no saints in foxholes
But, then again, don't look for atheists
In sickbeds either
Father, forgive us, for our words are black and blue.
Father, forgive me, for a life in search of you.
– Bro. Didacus R. Wilson, T.O.R.
(© copyright All Rights Reserved Wilson, Richard S.)
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