Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Stumps in His Cabbage

You would think you would 

love a man who died 

for you and for everyone else, 

even those who will never 

know that he did.

But you don't, not really.  

The monks in the choir

you hear on Sunday 

sing hymns from the heart.

They make fruitcake all week

stoked by the knowledge 

he died for them. 

They love him 

in a way that you 

can only imagine

despite much prayer. 

You adore him, however, 

as well you should. 

You know he's infinite,

omnipotent, without 

beginning or end. 

You hold him in awe. 

No one commands your

respect more than him. 

You follow his will, mostly. 

You tell others about him 

but the love doesn't come, 

gripped as you are 

in tongs that have held you 

since childhood

growing up in a house 

where a man who worked 

long hours, never drank, 

put you through school 

then went nuclear at dinner 

with your mother  

when he discovered 

"stumps in my cabbage, 

lumps in my potatoes," 

a man whose roar rattled

the neighbors and sent 

the dog under the bed.

You would think you would 

love a man who died 

for you and for everyone else. 

But you don't, not really. 

You keep trying to love him 

and your father as well.

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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.