Forgiveness
You kill a man. He can’t forgive you. God
Steps in. He can’t forgive you. That would be
Too easy. Murdered meat beneath the sod
Is munched away by worms. Once murdered he
Is able as a rotten burger to
Give grace. His wife, his lover, or his child
Might stretch out arms or hands to pardon you
But that is not forgiveness. It is mild
Tea, camomile perhaps, applied on clumps
Of cancer as a therapy, a nurse
Who helps at births suggesting sugar lumps
To mothers of cold stillborn babies. Worse,
Religions’ paltry gestures of that sort
Are too like burns rubbed by a warmed up wart.