you’re a formless hollow in the cushion,
with blue shadows.
a child’s voice outside.
or inside, you cannot
where did my idea of Good come from?
from my parents or my third grade
teacher, or the stubble-bearded
youth pastor who had the affair?
if the man will pay to rape her
but his money would feed the village,
whose rights are more important?
the words prick the formless jelly
in your heart cavity,
not very comfortable.
you stretch your index finger
to punch the volume button,
humming along. it’s Friday
in the States and that’s no time