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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Photo by Chiara Cremaschi/Flickr
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