Roy Herndon Smith
He was a smart boy,
but sometimes he asked foolish
questions I answered.
Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?
I know that Father.
He cowers in His house while
children have no homes.
That Father towers,
a cedar of Lebanon,
and disdains to see
abandoned gardens,
rampant mustard bushes, and
barren fields of blood.
He likes His bread pure,
his wine ethereal, while
the poor starve and thirst.
He likes his virgins
lying in darkness and still,
stripped to flesh splayed
for His furrowing
plow thrusting His corruption
into blooming wombs.
Who is my mother?
I am your mother.
I take leaven and mix it
into flour. I wait
until the dough’s all
leaven, then bake the bread you
feast on every day
Like the sun and rain,
I fall on you whether you
are good or evil.
Because I toil, you,
like the birds of the air, are
free to fly and chirp.
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
My child, O my child,
that God has always forsaken,
will always forsake.
His first children fell
into His trap. He cast them
into pain and death.
He overshadowed
your mother, left her with child,
and then ensnared you.
He told Abraham
to sacrifice Isaac. Now He
sacrifices you.
A God who forsakes
his children does not love them,
yet still you love Him.
I am your mother.
I will never forsake you,
my child, O, my child.
dust 