Self Incrimination

This urge to do something, something to fix
Something horrific someone is doing
To someone else, to undo it by some doing,
I should

Embrace it—do something with it, become
One of the ones who try to do something,
Otherwise I am nothing, have done nothing
And worse,

By doing nothing, I have made everything
Worse, have supported the worst, those
Who do what should never be done, who
Must be

Stopped and undone. So I am stopped. I am
Undone. I wish I had done nothing. Instead
I have done a little something, a little
Something

Wrong.

Martyr
Is the Doric Greek for witness. I was raised
To be a witness for the Gospel of Jesus,
Which, in our house, meant evangelical,

Protestant,
Ye-must-be-born-again-or-be-damned

Witness, an orientation that included my
Own thick, paperback copy of Foxe’s Book

Of Martyrs,
With a dark maroon design and dense text
Of monotonously repeated horrors that I did
Read and still recall, perhaps even recall

Correctly,
Although you never can tell with memory,
There being few forms of evidence less
Reliable than an eyewitness. When I left

This system,
Left off testifying, visiting train platforms
And nursing homes to pass out leaflets
And bear witness, I have to confess

I found
Myself left fairly thoroughly suspicious.
It’s not that I don’t think you’re righteous,
More or less. I know people do the most

Cruel and callous
Things to other, often harmless people.
I hear that calling--Someone, someone
Please do something, someone must bear

Honest witness.
But although I suppose I could yet be
Martyred for doing something or not doing
Something, I don’t trust myself to choose

What to do.
I have an addled compass, and I can see it
Spinning, useless, and whether or not I am
Forgiven, forgive me—I'm no good witness.