The evil, the veil- which am I?

"Fields", "Ambivalence", and "Thy Will" by Theo Cruz.

Fields
 
Fickle the feelings of children are,
– wrapped in weighted blankets of innocence –
seldom fleeting. 
I watch as the echoes of laughter loosen the grip of the fleece. 
Their small hands reach for the risk of pain – as their happiness
soon comes with waves of disappointment. 
The children have their picnic, 
tiny sandwiches, and banana smiles, chased by ants. 

Crossing land that those who come before me lay beneath, 
nurturing the soil they suffered upon, still holding onto what was lost, 
hoping to get to the peanut butter-covered white bread and sticky 
fingertips hovering over chocolate-smothered strawberries. 
Soon the basket becomes a vehicle to move one child from 
corner to corner of the land they’ve claimed; ​​​is ownership innate?

The children, living without care for the things I know exist around them. 
I want them to live without abandon, with two parents, with love
unconditional, and yet, I fear the day they become aware. 
One child has taken the sheet, wearing it as a cape, to save 
their friends from the evil they pretend lurks behind the trees, 
the evil that I know awaits them. 

              The evil, the veil -
                  which am I?

Fickle the feelings of children are; woven into the aspects of life that have been 
saturated in the insecurity of adults. 
In a moment, I’ll walk over and interrupt their imagination with a reminder of bath time 
and dinner but 
for a few more years
(if given that much more time)

I will let them relish in blissful innocence.
I miss the thoughtlessness of being
in a field surrounded by longleaf pines. 

---

ambivalence

i’m skinning myself 
on my way up to the surface of faith, 
stripping myself of what was - 
scars where breast once hung
breaking myself to reach where 
devils were angels once sung.

i reach the land where the questioners lie,
wrapped in subtle offenses;
to balance myself on the edge. 
“out or in,” they ask, “out or in.”
 
reopening myself for stability 
my flesh curls around their hooks;

i peel away from the surface,
weeping over the ones i’ve left below. 
they reach for me, clawing at my toes
praying to weigh me down;
 
“Be still,” they chant, “For God has not given us a spirit of fear.” 
pulling me lower        lower still 
oh, God!           i let them, 
i don’t want to split myself.

questioners gawk at my fingers
wondering why they’re outstretched.
then one of them
wraps their tongue around my thumb, 
my skin wrinkles beneath it as
the scent of heresy seeps out of my pores
a sharp pain travels down my arm 
i hang by a thread of
 
myself.

---

thy will

Be done. 
Lord, I know it’s done. 
I have traveled through every valley –
highs and lows –
shadows and death – 
and sighed every heavy 
Selah. 
Singing your psalm songs etched in my memory, 
hymnals in pews i- 

i seep to my knees  
and pray. 

i know not of what's to come from 
this moment, yet, i cry out to you. 
i've forgotten the sound of your voice. 
the echo of false saviors may fill my mind, but i will never forget your touch 

waiting for your hands to embrace me and lift me up  
waiting for your ridges to absorb my cerulean tears 
waiting for your lips to touch mine, inflating my lungs 
(my hands grip the dirt around me as i return to the place i once was)

---

T is a second-year graduate student at the University of North Carolina in Charlotte. They are studying English with a concentration in creative writing and poetry. They are studying the intersection of religion and queer studies.

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