Screaming Honey Mustard Man

Once, as a little boy
I saw images of cloaked ghosts
hiding behind pure, holy masks
raising a man by his neck
with the aid of a braided rope.
I wondered if this man was Christ
being that there was a blazing cross
a yard's distance from him
and there being no other reason
for this pinata man to levitate above the earth.
Of course, I soon understood
there were too many crosses burned
for all these accounts and deaths
to have such a title earned.

There was also a quiet man who lived alone
in the house next to mine.
Living there in constant solitude and silence,
with scars on his arms as from climbing trees.
Mothers had always said he was a "poor queer man"
and that us kids were to "never speak with him
Nor ever enter his home."
As it was spoken with demanding fingers
we obeyed, though none of us knew the reasoning.
Mothers said, "You need not know the reason."
I believe mothers could not think of one.

What I remember most of the unspoken man
Is the gift of honey mustard he gave to every neighbor
upon every Christmas, every year.
Though no one ever responded with an exchange,
he never forgot nor failed...
it was the best honey mustard I ever had.

I loved to watch this man, when no one knew.
Though he never spoke a word to me, nor I to him,
I saw rising up within his eyes
an outburst he could barely contain.
In visions at night, I asked him tamely,
�Why don�t you just scream, sir?�
In my dream I whispered again,
�Why don�t you let it free...
why don�t you just scream?�
I asked this in thought as I stared by day,
Desperately hoping it would reach his eyes.

A week after, the quiet man who lived alone
moved away from the house next to mine.
He was said to have been screaming
as they held and helped him leave.
Mother told me to sit and pray, so I did.
All I really remember, though, is that he always
had a gift for everyone, every year...

it was the best honey mustard I ever had.

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