Too Good For Me
I.
What made you think I could not hear
the noise and thunder of your silence,
your wordless phone calls in the dark,
your letters without addresses that said that you
had to be
too good for me.
You wear religious Grace like a sheriff’s badge,
hiding behind gentle phrases and voiceless obedience
to men with paper proclamations.
You wear brother Mercy like the gallows
hangman,
dangling your anointed noose before my
cowering eyes.
I wish you’d stood there grinning.
What made you think I would not see
the blast and outburst of your absence,
your bodiless visits when I wept,
your ghostly hand when I begged for help from
someone who was
too good for me.
What made you think I would not feel,
the pain and shredding of your numbness,
your lifeless prayers when I died,
your ghastly ointment when I shrieked for balm from
a friend who was
no good for me.
II.
I am the worst sinner, far worse than fallen heroes,
with a darker face and hidden heart that cannot
stand laughing light.
I am the faintest saint, in sham appearing pulpit fresh,
shuffling my cards till the best hand appears.
I cannot get it right, far worse, I rarely care to.
But find my disobedience wrapped up nicely
in songs, or martyrdom, or simple tears that attract
renewed sympathy from naïve attendants.
Once they know me longer, they’ll fear my heart as I do.
III.
See, I can’t get there from here.
I’ve seen the postcards, the whitesand and jewel breakers,
I’ve felt the tropics kiss my cheek and the worship
swell
like heaven in my breast.
But I wake and before the second coffee cup
I’ve lusted
Or broken
Or stolen
Or lied
Or defrauded
Or coveted
Or murdered
Or cried
And I fall asleep in Antarctic depression.
IV.
I never yelled when you did not call,
I never spat when you did not write,
I crawled into my hole again and wished to die.
I could tear apart the walls,
I could break into your breakfast nook,
I could rage volcanic helplessness over
Your offers to call this week
But it’s 6 years later, and one appeal further,
and 3 letters inked upon my sobs and appeals
So I crawl into my depression where I avoid
the anger
And seek unlawful comfort from anyone
Who’s too good for me.
V.
I did not want to add this stanza,
sweeten the anger so it tasted like sacramental
wine
But still I cast my shredded heart,
my malevolent purposes,
my wicked palms, soles and head
And weep like a hurricane around His feet,
and plead like acid rain for the heat
of His wounds to bleed all over my cannots
and should-nots and find me crumpled,
staring into the eyes of the Son of God,
the only Friend who was not
too good for me.
Trying to rest in the friendship of Jesus,
mark p.