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Red Ink

Todd Matson


he wrote a poem in red ink
reminiscent of the words of Jesus
in the red letter edition
of the King James
highlighted, set apart
from the words of mere mortals
“Father, forgive me . . .” he wrote
as he remembered the countless ways
he had fallen, fallen
lower than a dark angel
forever craving light
fallen into darkness
with no apparent end
and he wrote so the congregation
could see what he had written
in as much as they had
apparently not heard
what he had been saying
what he had been crying out
in sermons, in prayers
at revivals where he had gone
fishing without a bite
at weddings, at funerals
at the altar
at the back door of the church
at bedsides, in hospitals
in psychiatric units
where it was never clear to him
who was pastor, who was patient
“Father, forgive me . . .” he wrote
as if the sins of the people
were his sins
which he would have
been willing to bear
were he the Messiah
“Father, forgive me . . .” he wrote
the tablet his wrists
the ink his blood
the pen his fishing knife
the congregation his demons
of intractable depression
“Father, forgive me . . .
for I know not what I do.”





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