Good

Your dream of men bowing d own
Before you in your white robe
The dust-like scent of the geraniums
We gave you for Easter
The polka dot dress you wore to church
With the ribbed linen gloves
To hide your callused hands
The tongues of the angels in which you spoke.
The women of the congregation
You called into circles around me,
To pray for the removal of demons.
The sight of you shoved backward
Into the Christmas tree by my drunk
And angry older sister and in my tears
My resolve to be better than good for you

And of course the path of righteousness
I left for the fleshpots wherever they might be.

These things recalled hearing
With the inner ear, Fred at our boss’s door,
Saying “I’m a good boy.
You’ll see. A very good boy.”

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