The Unmade Choice

The Unmade Choice

Living eighty seven years in a world whose hands
put so many in his own, more than the span

of a single life would be needed to read
a thousand palms, the maps of lines turned to scars

that rested in the church of bones. After they
opened to a blinding light fingertips trembled

like choir boys singing page after page
of hallelujah years, till silence finally held him there

like no hands ever could. I could have listened
to him forever if that was a choice I had. Instead,

I’m building a sculpture of words, called I never looked
for God in my Father. A choice never had to be made.

For Emmanuel Moore J

***

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