As if he was nothing,
you discarded him,
wanted to cover up—
what?
Did you think
you could hide
ugly,
alabaster
lies forever?
Is that how
the old saying goes?
Was one of you kiddos
thinking,
or praying,
that some good Christian,
blue-eyed Jesus
somehow exists—
that he could make it
so the voices
would get so garbled
you could no longer hear
yourselves say:
you killed him.
That poor boy
had parents
to go home to.
Wait—
didn’t you
have parents
to go home to?
And those parents,
they will argue
your bright futures,
fight to make sure
you still get
to see them through.
You killed him.
And not one of you
felt a thing.
You can say
you felt
the slightest mess,
the slightest sickness
in your stomach—
but did you speak it?
Did you say
what you did?
Did you call it
a mistake?
Did you say
what happened?
Did you tell
his parents,
his grieving mother,
where he was?
You feigned care.
You feigned concern.
You will always feign—
with a hand
pressed to your chest.
You,
who come in
with the charge.
This is your lineage.
Your privilege.
This is how
you raised
your children
to be,
because
this
is who
you are—
while they suffer.
Their children.
