It’s impossible, a contradiction
Of being, a false manipulation.
The mistake is in not knowing,
Like a child mimicking a curse,
Without any idea what it means.
At four I once told my brother,
“I wish you would go to hell,”
Then added, “no, don’t go to hell.”
Hell being no more than a word —
Yet I was vigorously punished
With a dozen stripes of a strap.
Some think we’re not born innocent,
Like the lion, the viper, or the lamb,
But by some withheld benediction
That can only be lost in the learning,
Which in itself taints the newly-wise.
The veins in a sick hand, febrile
And limp, are not guilty till lifted.
“The only truly innocent are dead,”
Some say. No greater lie ever said,
Because even they are burdened
By all that has come before. Not sin,
Not ignorance, but the spoken word,
The lie given breath willingly,
For no other purpose than my own.
