Stones flying dust at her or at me, I cannot see. Everywhere
looking but not finding
where are the ones he was with walking
eating, laughing, touching, weeping.
To take my place among the stone
throwers I find camaraderie, support, cheers for doing what is right
I am told. But I cannot see the ones whom he was
with. Faintly hear the cries lost somewhere
in the dust, the rage
created by me, us, in the name of him. But his way
narrow, marked by suffering. Stones thrown
at whom? At them, him?
“heretic!” Is this not where he has been
all along. And I. Where will I be found, which
side. The stone-throwing elder son so close
to him, but not with. Blind to blindness believing to be
seeing. Alone. You see, it is so much easier to join the stone
throwers. The majority. The way they’ve done
for years. Tradition. Less pain at least
on the exterior, living
on the surface seems worth it. Until I see that I cannot see
where is he from here. But this cannot be.
Comforting whispers to my dying self that I’m
what if the way really is that
“Heretic!” Deep pain on the exterior.
Ostracism. The minority. Counter-culture
upside down, bloodied by the stones of those once my own. This
the only way I can see
Being the way.