When I Don't Know What to Do

Once, while sitting in Ego's waiting on the slam to start, I did what most poets do: I people watched and wrote poetry. This poem came up in my pen and just spilled over onto the page. It came so fast, I felt as if I were channeling the heart of some young man in the room. I read it during open mic. And, as you imagine, a young man came up to me with tears in his eyes and asked me, "how did you know my story?"


When I Don’t Know What to Do, I Pray for You

When I don’t know what to do, I pray for you,

A voice ascending to a distant and present throne,

The sound of a crone professing faith in you

And the divine impress imprinted on your soul

You cry into the hollow of my hands,

Confess your night terrors

And the times your mother caressed your manhood

Like a woman in need

You tell me how confusing it all was

And that the first time, you sneaked into the liquor

Searching for the elixir that would guarantee

You would forget—

You never did

And, though you loved her madly,

You could never look upon her breasts and be comforted

The way only a mother’s bosom can comfort a son

You explain to me the sacred math of reason,

How you went for seasons after women 20 years your age,

How you found yourself wanting a mother,

And yielded to this Oedipal urge that drove you

All the while you abandoned her—your own Jocasta

Who troubled you with her demons

You cry into the hollow of my hands,

Lean a heavy burden on my shoulders,

Sigh your curses into my hair

When I don’t know what to say, I hold you

Gently against my body and pray for you,

A silent petition for the healing

Of that first and fractured bond

Between a mother and her son

You tell me how confusing it all was

And how you found a toke and dipped it

In formaldehyde and stroked yourself

To sleep, crying softly and whimpering “Mama”—

How she tried to take it back the second

That she touched you, begged you

To forgive her, told you she was sorry—and drunk

You shrunk from her pleading

And told her to go to hell

Your words break and swell

In telling me as you cry your pain

Into the hollow of my hands

And I pray for you and hold you

To keep you from drowning

In your own confusion

When I don’t know what to do, I pray for you,

A voice ascending

A silent petition

A holy struggle

To deliver you from the fires

That scorch you still

© Valerie Bridgeman [Davis]

September 2002