Was he slipped through veiled deceit,
spiritual intentions, into my mother's
living spare room of Fathering?
Was He the breaking of every woman's heart,
this saviour whose name we and so many fight
and sing about? The savior who entered
on a donkey over palms into the city?
Was he slipped through veiled deceit,
mother's intent basket weaving her Son's
place in the palace? His life spared by her
hand? Was she slipped through veiled deceit,
planned arrangement non-Judaic, to the King's
side, Esther bride? Is my life the lie, the lie,
the deceitful lie, the lie He was not my father but only a
seated king, pawned to release the family i keep together?
He was the dropped One. The dropped Apple.
And who am I to him, that removed body, my body kept
removed from every natural arrangement
that could have been, and is now eternal awkwardness,
for the deceit of spiritual intent and kept priorities to survive
at all costs, weaving intentions to the slavery of ONE
survival. If only growing my hair out or shaving my head
or tattooing every stretch of skin and cutting every artery
known to me would make up for the damning sorrow.