Pro-Strife

They’re women. Not a plank in your stage, just average everyday Janes; your neighbors, for Godssake, mothers and sisters. Some have, some consider with trembling and doubt — one way in, no way out. Some married, some teens, so many between a hard choice and a harder so they barter with God and the stars on their knees in the yard, where their prayers can’t be heard. But oh my word, how you shout, the foam from your mouth a baptism of fire, a river of ire, diluting their tears. A gallery of sneers, hurl the jeers. Quote your text, (no context), referencing a savior, as you savor your favor at his right side, though you left his side when you started this fight. Trample the example, snuff the light. No mercy, just a need to be right. And they pay the price for your righteousness, ‘cuz oh God, how you love life?

You defend men who put knees on the necks of suspects — call it justice. You watch the dying light in the white of the eyes of men condemned to death by no jury, but by the fury of of those sworn to protect.  You watch it live on Channel 5, sip some chai, kiss the kids goodnight. Pull your covers tight, close a blind eye, breathe in free, catch a blithe high. No “woe is me,” no “woe for thee.” Thou shalt not murder gets a pass for free when the deceased is just a thug, (saw some drugs?), an average Joe’s the status quo. “Don’t rock the boat, just let it go,” you say while on your way to March for Life with crooked smiles and clichéd signs.

Can the fetus feel it? Sense your passion fall as it descends the vaginal wall? Exit the womb, prepare the tomb. You assume no responsibility, not for poverty or how they’ll eat. Their plight you mock, put them on the chopping block: cut the funding, slam your door as soon as doctor cuts the cord. Hit the deck, armed gunmen: English class turned crime scene. You rush in, protect AR-15’s, stumbling over murdered teens. Tear down schools, pontificate, clutch pearls behind your guarded gate, your lone estate — a cozy place they can’t infiltrate. What better way to spend a day, then to save a life, abandon it to strife. Hear the elbow crack as you pat your own back. Can’t cut no slack ‘cuz Jesus ain’t about that.

Blessed are the blameless, blessed are the proud. Blessed are the stalwarts who call the sinners out. Make no mistake, your holiness, your cleanliness exudes; but vitriol’s your fuel, spark the feud. Strike up the battle song — resounding gongs. Meekness is weakness, so ring the bell and fight like hell, ‘cuz Judgement Day is coming while you’re thumbing the scale. Golly gee, face pale when you fail to move the masses, or the Savior. He’s in the back yard showing favor, in the grasses on his knees beside your enemies, comforting those who seek with hands that hold, hands that mend their broken bones. Your hands could too, but they’re gripping stones. How Heaven groans as you cast another at a would be, could be, can’t-quite mother. Oh what’s it matter, (All Lives, Some Lives?), never mind, go pull the pin and hide behind your misread, cure-all Bible line, behind your screen, beneath your pews. Huff and puff, rant, accuse, and hang yourself from your own noose.