Another Thursday

 Another Thursday, I call you.
“how you are?” I ask
A trembling voice, you tell me “everything is fine”
in that modest way of an African mother, stubbornly protecting her child from her suffering.
But it’s not.
“Gabsy, where is god?” you ask, the mother admitting defeat.
Thoughts of the past few days
Religiosity engulfing me
I want to tell you that like Joseph, God must have a plan Ma
Whether or not I believe, I want to tell it to you Ma
But I catch myself midsentence
Realizing the self-righteousness of these words
I am not the one living it.
Short or long-sleeve, I am not being asked.
To watch freshly axed body-parts quivering in the dirt
I am not forced to beat my neighbors,
Nor to rally for that which I do not support
Nor to watch my father hang himself
Nor to watch my mother burn.
So who am I to tell you that your suffering is part of a plan?
Who do I think I am?
And yes indeed Ma, where is God?
In avoidance, I change the subject.
Withholding inevitable tears of anger, of fury, of helplessness.
Ma, I ask, where is God?