No Conversion Therapy

     No Conversion Therapy

His eyes hold blacks that Jesus wished to be

When he loomed next to Lucifer, the blacks

That oceans hold beneath each night-time sea,

Not surfaces but depths that only lax

Hearts know.  His eyes hold feelings blacker than

Unfallen angels never know until

They spiral down towards understanding man.

The blackness there appears inside the spill

Towards Eden.  Fists can never know such black

Until they try to clutch wide outer space

Before the stars exploded.  Then the lack

Of hope fills hearts with lustings’ lush disgrace.

  The eyes might once have wanted to be blue

    But then they grasped the hell of bone tattoo.

Phillip Whidden