Preacher’s Son

I carved out my heart once.

I didn’t die, I just stood there

Looking at it

Beating in the palm of my hand

Blood dripping through my fingers

It was red like you’d expect

But it didn’t feel like mine

So I held it out to you…all of you

You see this was never meant to be a love poem

This is a passion piece

Written in the spaces between stigmata,

I’m here to sacrifice myself for you…and me


I always wanted to be a preacher

At least on the weekends

Because that’s when God works right?

But one day my mother came home with blood on her hands

When I asked her why she said

She’d been trying to get hearts beating again and shocking them wasn’t working

It was a Tuesday.

My mother is a preacher.

She preaches with the soft voice of her eyes and the lines in her hands

But every night she brings back the rocks and the hard places with her

Like trophies of war

Some days she wins

Others she says she’s still fighting

I will never be a preacher

I do not have the strength for it

To carry anyone else’s demons like that


Now and then I dream of being a poet

It’s a sacrifice I can make

I carve out my heart night after night and I hold it out to you

Listen to it sing into a microphone as it drips words onto the stage

Every poem is a public execution

A crucifixion of demons

One day I might get rid of them all.


I carved out my heart once

I didn’t die I just stood there watching it

And to me it sounded



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