mama told me, there’s a line
in the sand that doesn’t change.
it tells you who is a Saul.
he’s a killer, hang ‘em high!
hang ‘em high? i ask, but what
if Saul’s got kids? a wife? a
grandma? mama, what if he
never got his chance at light?
light, she repeats, is not his;
if Saul’s hands are stained with blood
then he’s a shadow, no light,
and when he’s gone, you’ll be safe.
we’re quiet, then, and she tucks
me beneath the blankets, but
forgets the nightlight. mama?
she stops, a scratched record.
if i was Saul, i whisper, mama, would you hang me high?
and she stops. and frowns. and looks
me dead in the eyes. honey,
you’re not bad, like Saul. you’re good,
and i’d never hang you high.
but if i forgot how to
be good, would you forgive me?
mama, what if i lost my
light and my hands were red, too?
your hands will never be red.
her ears are locked; i fumble
with the latch. mama, if I
was Saul, would you give me a
second chance? mama, tell me.
i think her bones are on fire.
she blinks: once, twice, three times, and
now she’s sitting on my bed,
softer, warmer, ears half-open.
if every Saul was you, i
declare, i’d give you another
chance. i’d give you three more,
because i love you that much.
so she smiles, finally,
and kisses my head; her
voice is chocolate: honey,
i’d give you a million.