Soft downy baby fuzz
cherubic dimpled cheek
tiny curled fist flailing,
tugs her heart,
fills her soul,
twinkles her eye,
brightens her smile.

Or so it should be
for a Mom.
It’s understood.

Curled at her breast,
imbedded in her heart –
his aroma, his suckle,
kicks against her ribs,
delight at mother’s
milk. His drowsy
relaxed satisfaction.

When did he stop being
her baby, her boy, her son?
When did he become
something to possess?
When did her weaning
not take?

Did she lust after his
toddler chubby legs?
Did she need
to imbed in his
pubescent skin,
to taste his man-ness?
How soon?

Was her bed too
cold, too empty
too stale after the
sperm donor left?

How did she think
it acceptable?
Forget normal.

Were they a mother-son
tied together,
invisible
strings to the hollow
inside spaces;
once caught
held tightly, webbed,
firm, unable to
separate?

Would he agree?
Or does his hollow
inside cave howl
to be free?

It hits the light of day
and the mother cockroach
scuttles out away from
the light.

Not me!
I could never!
It was her,
or him
or
I don’t know
but don’t look at me!

Did no one glimpse
his fragility
his frailty
his betrayal?

Perversion attempts
swallowing purity.
The stubborn black stain
pushes back against
whitewash
cover-ups.

Purity holds fast.  Doesn’t give up.
Purity’s deep river
demands full immersion.
Red, rich blood shed
on the cross – the
only antidote
for black stains.

Will he find hope?
Will he throw himself in
its flood?
Will his vision of love
recover,
transform,
heal, or is
perpetuation inevitable?

Even so, Lord Jesus, come.
Come and heal.

Why does my heart
ache for his victimness
and discard her
in her perpetration?

Are both not offered the
same cleansing flood?

Even so, Lord Jesus, come.
Come and heal.

I find myself hoping
it’s all a ploy
to deflect truth from
a sexually active
fifteen-year-old boy.
Boys will be boys.

As if mere handing over of a
soul and giving away
the gift of sexuality
to the first taker
at youth’s
tender age
is healthy;
carries no consequences,
buries no pain,
deflects all wounds.

Don’t confuse typical
or common
with right,
with healthy,
with purity.

There’s so much pain,
so much dysfunction,
so much sharp sticking perversion.

Even so, Lord Jesus, come.
Come and heal.

Our only Hope.
Even so, Lord Jesus, come.

Spotlight truth so
false promises of fake
satisfaction peel away.

Revealed is tender baby skin,
soft fuzzy downy hair and
cherubic grins.

Perversion fails.
Purity lives.