CALL ME BELOVED

Sixteen years ago I wrote
that god is the spotlight
over Lessing Field
on my old school’s campus, at least
it’s how I felt back then, that night
I took the knife to my arm
during that cry for help
that went unanswered – now
I think about that spotlight –
if any grass is still there,
trodden down by desire paths;
is it still a field at all,
or did they pave over god
with another parking lot?

Do they still call it Lessing?
Were those thirteen strokes
of the knife a blessing,
a blunt benediction
tallying gratitudes
up to her lucky number –
or was the real prayer
how your friend hesitated
(you saw it) just a breath
when the semester was over
before he gave the pocketknife back.
You two were never close, but
still, he cared, didn’t he?

You thought nobody was listening.
Your mother just cried, the only
thing your father offered was
a small vial of serum, vitamin E,
he passed to you that one day in June
like making a drug deal, “use this –
I don’t want to see any scars.”
You came out that summer, or tried,
close to the edge of the water
in case nerves made you throw up,
and after the words slipped hot
over your lips – the silence hit.
Nobody made another sound,
never did, again – your secrets
were always too much to bear; god
was the seagull eavesdropping
on a nearby bulkhead, or the
lapping of the bay against the dock
in and out and in and out and in and

maybe god isn’t watching –
that old spotlight just some lesson
in Theseus’ ship, tipped over now, but
you saw it, when your eyes met –
how he looked you over before
handing back your dad’s knife, how
unsure you were of everything but
it was clear, then – how even this man
who never seemed to care for much
still thought enough of you – even
if only as superficial as not wanting
something beautiful to be marred
by it’s own hand.