At
work, late one August day,
a
boy with coprolalia entered
holding
the hand of his mother.
He
began to shout expletives
at
another shopper
and
spat upon her
as
she passed.
We
do not blame the boy
but
the condition that oppresses.
We
do not hate the man
but
the twisted seed of illness.
My
brother is not my enemy
though
he may name himself as such.
I
take no offense
from
my sister’s hate
but
from the forces that compel her.
I
do not hate the world
as
though it plots against me
with
willful intent,
but
fight instead against its ruler
who
leads by lust and lies
and
subtle manipulations.
Our
hearts yearn for justice
while
our prayers plead for grace;
knowing
the penalty
so
longing for release.
