Even at age eleven, I understood that
Mom was hurting my little sister bad
when she lied that our dad planned to
kidnap her from the playground and told
the principal to keep my sister inside during
recess, and when Mom tried to make us hate
our dad, I came to believe I could find the words
 
to shield my sister, who was five and innocent,
and when Mom made the cover of World Weekly News
for picketing Dad’s apartment after he fell behind
on child support, I understood that Mom craved
attention more than food, and when she changed
our last name to Christian, I didn’t know
the term virtue signaling, but I knew she wanted
 
to look good, wanted Dad to feel bad,
and didn’t care what we wanted. If Mom’s
a Christian, I don’t believe in it anymore.
I’ve stopped believing in a Heaven where she
can stop suffering or a Hell for all the suffering
she caused us. I’ve stopped believing I can write
a syllogism so logical, or a poem juxtaposing images
 
so clearly and musically, or a story with its plot
showing cause-and-effect like dominos that, falling,
would make her see reality, make her sane,
but I believe in a god who brought me through,
in my wife and kids, in a few good friends,
in music that refreshes me like cool water,
in the power of words to make sense
 
of the world. I believe that I can still be happy.