Some are already anxiously
engaged in turning this ordeal
into small talk. They
want to slough it off. They
hope to forget it, or cloister
it away deep in their minds—
in a hovel behind the mansion
house of consciousness—a place
only activated when almost asleep
or starting to wake. They wish
the chore of vocal confession.
I want to remember how we
all giggled the moment after
realizing we’d been hit. Really
hit. More than hit—our normalcy
gouged out while we slumbered.
Our lives were infiltrated—savory
treats with their aromas carried off
by thieves into Babylon—damned
nasty thieves who should be
in cages like the animals
we are… Good grief! We giggled
during that twinkling of an eye.
We did not cry. We did not
rage and throw our remaining
relics around. We ogled each
other’s shock and giggled
while standing stiff, becoming
pieces on a game board, practicing
tyranny and tragedy.
Not yet came
long days of cleaning, reordering,
internalizing. Before inner shivers—
tickling tremors of shame—before
infection soaked our skins red,
we giggled like a bunch of hungover
Lamanite guards or house servants
standing over a headless Laban.
Only after then did we begin
to live each and every minute
of days strained by fullness.
I want to always remember, so
I never have to learn this again.
If you appreciated this poem, you might also try The Surgeon Apostle’s Bestowal.
Featured image by tiero, licensed from iStock.