Our Father
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Our Father
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Emma MacHugh has been writing spoken word, or âslamâ poetry since she was a junior in high school. She and NHS senior Haley Keane recently attended the International Youth Poetry Slam Festival in Washington, D.C., where hundreds of youth gathered to share poetry that touched on a broad range of subjects.
Jesus Christ there must have been a reason why
your followers edited out eighteen years of your life.
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You must have been too human.
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You probably sang down the streets of Bethlehem
with your friends, voice a righteous drunken smear
on you immaculate record, alcohol and vomit
a crusted glaze on brown sandaled feet.
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Yes, I can see why they had to pretend
you never experienced flaw.
Ignored the years when you doubted your holiness,
never wrote scripture on how you rocked
back and forth in your motherâs arms, imploring
why me? why this fated providence
of sacrifice?
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Jesus, when you finally came to accept it,
did you really believe? Messiah, I beseech you,
tell me; are you really our saving grace?
Were the crusades sanctioned by your smile?
Do your hands ever ache sometimes
under the burden of those bodies piled high?
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Jesus, all I really want to know is how did you leave
your family? How did you turn from your wifeâs
garnet sea tears? Did you run from her arms
so fast your feet left cross-sized tracks
in your wake? Did you forget your children
like my father forgot us? Like luggage
full of gym shorts and love letters
he never bothered to pick up?
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The Sunday after my father left
my mother dragged us to church. I stared
at a cathedralâs rendition of your glory,
gaunt body strung up like high-top sneakers
snagged on electrical wiring â
and it didnât mean what it was supposed to.
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I wasnât shaken to my knees
in quest for absolution or forgiveness, Jesus,
you were just another adversary,
another man I couldnât trust.
Only you were held so high up,
I had to break the fists stacked in my spine
just to look at you. And I will never bend
for another man like that again.
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You are just another father, Lord,
looking for the easy answers. Pluck the sea glass
minnows of disbelief from within my ribcage
and set them swimming past my toes.
You of all people have the strength
to remove the doubt from self, shift
the boulder from the mouth of that cavern
and rise again! Instead, you hang
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solemn from grey walls, the watermark
over the family portrait of a savior
who just never came home.
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âEmma MacHugh