Personal History

Yes i was
Fond of what was blood
The communion was shared sacred
‘Immaculate Heart,’ they called Mary
And i wondered if Fatima knew that
In the house that allowed rancour
Six fledglings
And i was to be three
Treated differently-
Worse, i thought. And so i fought
And every stripes i earned, i learned
How different from the five that stayed alive
I had been. I was alive and dead.
Towards me, it was mean;
actions, the texture of hate
The whip of love that forged support.
The heat of burden, the coal of pity
And then it was enough.
The sky needed someone to build castles already
And i did. This wasn’t my home.
I was missing a different father, i wanted to go home.
I wanted the blood to get tested
I cried in fumes and foam
to chronicle how i protested. This wasn’t him.
As striking as semblance had been, it didn’t same seem.
But at the knees of the crucifix
We had fixed a gaze transfixed
In Maria’s praise.
Not just Christian born but Catholic strong
In a war mix i still bleed from today.
Karol Józef Wojtyła stood right there
Saying nothing
Just hanging from the wall
Of my father’s altar

Leonell