The Soul’s Silent Scream
Dedicated to Honorable Judge Dana U. Wakefield
There it was.
Did you hear it?
The sound from the abyss.
Unspeakable pain borne with no
outlet.
A wordless cry for help. For love.
Identity.
Meaning. Security. Contact.
Under control, the Scream is a
growing ache;
wild dogs in the basement a la
Bradshaw.
Snarling, eating, snapping,
gnawing each organ,
each appendage, every synapse,
even layers of skin.
A slow death, but at least more
predictable
than the onslaught of the entire pack at once.
In the distance —
Did you hear it?
A Baby Boy Allmon made of gametes
from
a commercial artist and a
secretary,
Told goodbye before knowing
the meaning of hello.
Honorable intent assumed.
Presumed? Exhumed? Perfumed?
Did the nurses hear my soul scream
lying in the hospital waiting to be
chosen?
Or did they mistake it for my voice?
Bottles don’t hug back.
In the picture —
Did you see it?
A five year old boy
bedecked in bow tie and plaid
jacket,
Mouth forming a smile
but eyes forming a scream,
Having discovered only that year
that another mother conceived,
Brought him into the world
and gave him away (to wonderful
new parents.)
Cheerful birth announcements read:
“I wasn’t expected – I was
selected!”
But who is Baby Boy Allmon?
They say I cried frequently,
at least until I could be trained to
scream silently.
For the record —
Have you read it?
Soul screaming, like fine wine,
becomes more sophisticated with
age.
Yessir, nosir. Yes’m, no ma’am. Piano
prodigy.
Honor roll. All-American boy.
Student leader.
Letterman. Scholarship. Awards
Poor boundaries. Molestation –
Was I that hungry to bond with
someone/anyone,
or just unsure there was a self to
defend?
Early signs of addiction to
pain killers:
thumb, food, endorphines,
alcohol, religion, sex,
Inability to commit wholeheartedly to
family, romance, friends,
career, God, or self (as whom to
love thy neighbor)
for fear of re-abandonment
(Which, therefore, happened.)
Who the hell is Baby Boy Allmon
and why won’t he stop
screaming?
In your heart —
Can you feel it?
The alienation. The disconnectedness.
The rage.
The powerlessness
over life-changing decisions made
before I had
The ability
let alone
The right to agree or object.
The desperation
for one glimpse at anyone
genetically like me.
The willingness
to bankrupt myself for one hour
of honest conversation with
The two people who gave me life.
The fear
of perpetuating an unknown
hereditary medical condition.
The deep resentment
that a man whose name is preceded by
The word “Honorable”
may be content to let Baby Boy
Allmon scream for his mother
until
The two of them
are only commemorated by
headstones, and
The three of them stand before
The One
who champions love, justice,
orphans, and is truly
The Judge.
Can you feel anything?
Can you see anything?
Do you hear anything?
I’ve heard Baby Boy Allmon all day,
every day,
for thirty four years.
Please help me
to help him
stop screaming.
The longer we wait,
The louder it gets.
