of Blame, Curses and Comfort

of Blame, Curses and Comfort

(“But Jacob became upset with Rachel and answered, ‘Don’t blame me! I’m not God.’” Genesis 30:2)

If I could raise your son from the dead,
restore the years when you thought he never would return,
remake the words you nosed him further and further away,
recast your rants to a wayward son
into invitations home for mom’s goodsome pie

I would have done it they day before he died.

But I am not God and you are not the Director of Activities
for the Heavenly Hall of Callings.

Your grief turned curls like anger,
Your sorrow blackened the bookends where cures
for every ailments went unread
after you thought I knew nothing of faith.

Your present points became past precedent as you
planned the future for one who could not do what
only should be asked of God.

Your demands were unprecedented and your prayers
against the ones you loved
resounded like curve balls cursing the very air through
which they flew.

If I could renew your mind from the dead,
restore your memories of what we just said yesterday,
or 10 minutes ago,
remake the sword into a plowshare,
recast your spear into a pruning hook
to prepare the fruit you and I might have eaten
round a table of mutual questions

I would set the table myself while we consoled
by twos and more, the loss of a son too early.