Postlapsarian, we
carry in pockets, the
lumps of perceived iniquities
distract us from
our actual guilt.

The impure loin or
purloined pear or
Pearl conceived by Hester
weight us down, or further tempt
the casting of first stones.

My fault, my fault, my
grievous fault with
focus on the my,
my neighbor just a witness
to the tragedy of I,

and I a witness to
nothing that concerns
the eyes of the Almighty
we ever learn of one
who this time might be there.

Destitution, squalor,
penury, affliction
of the heart and mind.
not even omission when
living with lacunae.

Ignoring need needs
seeing need, as something
even grievous.
there’s no intention, does it
even count as sin

to let the parent give a son
away for hunger?
Would it ever even cross our mind
such a thing
was happening

with such focus on our own
misdeeds, and our shortcomings?
The shame keeps aimed
ourselves, the spotlight;
blinding us to actual hells

on earth while we fret
upon the bye and bye.
Nearby, someone’s damaged
we don’t think to think of it,
as we tend to the offense,

of some fetid peccadillo.

Selected byMaria Mazzenga
Image credit:Aah-Yeah

Morgan Driscoll is a long time commercial artist, looking to express himself in some other way than selling Widgets. Poetry seemed the least commercial, and most under the radar way he could think of. So far it has been a satisfying, but obscure journey.

He has been published in The Amethyst Review, Humanist Magazine, The Penwood Review, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Mused, Califragile, Without Words Anthology, Constellate Magazine, Pure Slush, Caesura, and the Northwest Indiana Literary Journal, among others.