Born fragile,
every word
against him
cracked his
confidence,
so he
armored himself
with layers
and layers,
of thickened,
smothering
skin, so
the jabs
didn’t cut,
the slurs
didn’t bruise,
and the
poisonous
hatred wouldn’t
sink in,
yet while
keeping out
the world,
he found
himself alone,
forgotten
with only
his oboe
silent within,
until God
who adores
the always
remembered
fragile, appeared
and created
a new,
unique song
especially for
him
to call
through the
veils muting
his psalm’s
send.
There is a cardinal warm
red against the sparkling
white snow falling softly.
And he gives me hope,
like the little red cardinal
of my Daddy’s childhood,
who must have followed
Dad all the granddaddy’s
fields’ way, farm to town,
country to hospital, determined
to give the little child’s faith
a lift over his red scarlet fever.
Honestly, I didn’t really want
to leave after being seen,
but swathed in cotton paper
thin skin, and absent any
accompanying friend,
I felt powerless to stay,
vulnerable, naked, afraid,
especially without wine’s
numbing, warmly comforting,
sparkling glow of social charm,
the kind I didn’t have to put on,
also the kind there’s no filter on,
not to mention the kind decidedly
done.
So instead, isolating alone,
mocktailing and hiding shyly
behind my phone, anxiety
spiked my mind and laced
my awkwardly constructed
smile when approached
by well-meaning community
blinded to my overwhelming
self-judgment, self-consciously
directing encounters to mirror
me: forced, fearful, and fake.
Social living without libations’
lubricants can sometimes really
chafe.