(A Midweek Poem-Essay)
Opening the paper in the morning, I see the story of three who were killed on the streets of my city, precious children of someone.
I think of the three who the night before sat around our table, brothers all, one of them my son.
I see three crosses on a hill, three fingers pointing back at me when my hand makes the shape of a gun.
I wonder if they are weeping, God, the Father, Spirit, and Son,
killed again, shot to death in a car, waiting on the resurrection,
asking me, if I will pray what must be prayed and do what must be done.
I hear the nails go in.
I hear the shots of the gun.
I hear the Trinity, counting