My heart just pounds it out, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Get away from me!”
And you rant and rave to anyone that listens, making no sense at all with your
     conspiracies and accusations.
You ride about the neighborhood, our fragile quaking neighborhood, praising God’s name
     aloud, honoring God’s name, better than me, here and there on your bicycle,
     while riding off with little girls.
“Oh my God!”
I did it again. Did I? Didn’t I?
You stand in the sanctuary, arms outstretched, among the quietly sitting frozen chosen,
     keepers of the status quo.
You lift your hands straight up, not bent - not even bent, fingers spread, seeming to want it all.
My God, aren’t you pleased at that?

But last year, John, something happened.
You got yourself killed, squatting in a house that wasn’t yours.
Stabbed to death by a slum lord no one respects.
The case was dismissed as self defense.
Of course.
Another crime against our fragile, quaking neighborhood, against the mentally ill
     and homeless, and especially, against you.
Strange how my reaction to your murder was to finally feel safe!
Why was that, John? My God! Why was that?
Oh, John! John! You have a beautiful name!
Who did your mother name you for? An uncle, brother, father . . . lover?
John Adams? John Wayne? The disciple whom Jesus loved?
I scattered your ashes where a Bingo Plaza, thrift store, church once stood over
     a decade ago.
I did not cry, because I never loved you.
But the hard, throbbing lump forms in my tight throat for my crimes against you,
     my unproved suspicions and my dread of you.
And in the choking I see our helplessness, yours and mine.

In the hereafter, I want you to know how I broke the commandments when you
     were near.
By throwing God’s reputation away for the pagans to make into their merry mincemeat,
I took God’s name in vain.
They say they’ll know us by our love, but what about our fear?
I’d walk the other way when you approached, not wanting to figure you out,
     a chill running down my bristling back, as if you were a spider and not God’s work
     of art.
Oh, John, is the name of the Lord a strong tower, really? are his children safe inside?
Between us, could we,
               might we,
                         may we,
                              muster up just enough righteousness to hide there,
                                                                                you and I?

Anna Herron
a breathless mother and homemaker for two cute tornadoes
a teacher by trade
created and directed the 7th Street Tutoring Program in my garage for neighborhood kids in Tacoma, WA
the rest of the time a ballerina poet who loves cinnamon toast, historical novels, and communing with nature