Let me see them all, let me feel them all, let me enjoy them all. For
weeks now, I've resisted your
narrative of blood and love, Tom, teasing phrases from your
paragraphs as if they weren't
connected, by ligament and flesh, to the broken body and blood of your lord.
I don't want meditations on compassion mixed in your blood soup. I
prefer my details clean as a monk's robe. You're
all detail when it comes to thorns and wounds, all concept when it
comes to love. That might be a problem for
us, dear Tom, as these shadow
paragraphs approach their end. Or
it might be symptom: the nine of them in their sanctuary, contained
in your lord's presence, their blood soaking the floor, soaking the
city's streets, soaking our televisions, soaking
our souls--if we still had them.
Was he with the empty dull stare the agent of your story, Tom? That
hateful lost fuck-up
of a boy? Is he our Judas? Really, Tom? Must
we love him, too?
--19 June 2015
RIP
the Charleston 9
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