the night is the worst
empty arms and outdoors is
blue-black, like a bruise
Like the bruise you gave me
when you slammed the door in
my face
your empty promises of return
reverberating like so much empty
clanging of bells
The bells, the bells of church
ringing a God I do not know
who is the priest- man
burning me at the stake
burning the faith right out of me
Diabolical, really.
Your guttural laugh and your proclamation
of hearing God’s voice giving you me in marriage
will stay with me
as will the scars of your
thousands of lashes
the scars of a thousand crosses
never bridging distances
seared forever on my soul
I am digging my own grave
impassively
the black hole reaches out to me
Black hands holding a holy cross
I grasped it once
and it burned me
over and over
the harsh tones of a demon God
that saves no one
only buries hearts and minds and souls
and smashes crowns of thorns on unsuspecting penitent heads
©diane o’leary 2005
Diary of an American 
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