To Confess My Loneliness

To Confess My Loneliness

(“The priest shall burn all of it on the altar, for a burnt offering, an offering made by fire, of a pleasant aroma to Yahweh.” Leviticus 1:9b)

I’m so tired of confusing every emboldened cryptic answer
to the questions I send by test balloon. I’ve kept my eyes open.
I’ve even shut my mouth.
I’ve waited for the reply that would set all my doubts aside,
but all I remember is the smell of grilling from next door.
I had hoped the breeze would bring more voices,
would open up the choices I had that could make the day
feel sooner that later. I’ve been told it’s nothing personal
when I get no answer,
it's just the delivery system that is broken. I do not believe
that silly response no matter how well it is spoken.
I’ve been taught that loneliness is not a big enough
reason to cry.
“Isn’t God enough?” they ask. They walk on down the road
while I scratch my head about what they said.

I used to be embarrassed to confess my loneliness,
the result of silence I never asked for. Everyone had
an opinion;
everyone laid down their advice like directives from a
commandant. I was born in a room full of noise,
of laughter and crying. I live in a room of silence so
I turn the music up loud. I could relax so much better with
someone to talk to who didn’t have the answers full of
conclusions. They want me to put it all on the altar,
to let it burn up every part of me. They do not understand that
I have so little left to offer that the smoke from my altar
would barely be seen.

I’ve walked this pathway before. I’ve humbled myself in words
full of self-loathing. I’ve let it burn until there was nothing left of me
except bones blackened by the flame. I left one ceremony early
because my baby was tired and getting restless and others
shot their eyes at me like I was a heretic or transgressor,
when I was just a father with an exhausted toddler.

I wish someone would draw different conclusions. I wish
they would sacrifice for me the way they think I should sacrifice.
I wish I had something left to burn. Maybe it’s because I’m old now,
maybe it’s because I remember for so long the screeching sounds
of cars suddenly breaking outside at midnight. Maybe it’s simply
me who has been wrong, maybe I spent too much time in the moonlight.

Maybe I need one person holding back their well-intentioned advice
and revising their presumptions about me. Maybe a single voice,
quietly whispering its way into my heart would inject something new
into the dreams that cause my heart to ache in the middle of the night.