True Cross

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First-born must keep Mommy’s nasty secrets,

Somehow protect the little ones he loves.

Watches her fabricate master works of self-delusion,

As carefully, she plans her nightly moves.

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Is that cross true symbol, what she believes,

Or just inconvenience that she hides behind,

Kneeling in hollow homage at the prié-dieu?

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Sword with shield is hard to yield, heavy borne.

Every stroke she lays on him, for them, one less

So he hopes, but can’t be there for all other times.

When water boils; she can be merciless.

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Pray for the children in this home,

Pray that they’ll someday be left all alone.

Perhaps it’s mortal sin to think this out loud

Better to see Mom go away,

Than wonder if they’ll live another day.

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Rod and staff come in useful, drawing blood.

Lets them know who has final upper hand.

It’s only pain; just never leave a mark that shows.

He tells, she says, at twelve he’ll be unmanned.

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So very holy, so very reverent,

Yet what she shows outside isn’t what’s in her mind.

What Jesus doesn’t know isn’t bad, right?

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Don’t breathe a word to Dad; he’s far away.

Mommy has a game to play, understood?

Beneath white sheets with some friend, praying, groaning loud…

Holds brothers tight, and broken cross of wood.