The Volunteer

The Volunteer

 

Phones ring at dinner,

they know who it is and do not answer.

They wish not to have their consciences pricked.

 

Others

enter the edifice,

looking unfazed by the sacrifice they will soon make.

These give of themselves

to save the lives of strangers

whose names they’ve never heard.

They will hear no thank-you from the beneficiary.

 

Are they kinder? More altruistic?

(Or less afraid.)

 

I see them enter

a cathedral filled with chaise lounge altars

upholstered in vinyl.

Robed in the cross-bearing vestment of my office,

a red t-shirt,

I ask them their names

and if they’ve lived the commandments.

I examine their worthiness

to shed their own blood.

There will be no ram in the thicket.

 

Why am I here? The pressure

of a religion that has pumped my veins

with guilt. (Or charity?)

The heart wants to rid itself of the blood it circulates

but the brain reminds it of its selfish purpose:

Life must go on the same.

 

Once I tried to be one of them

(when I ran out of private excuses).

Posing as one of those brave

I gave

but my heart slowed

and ceased to allow it.

“I’m dying” said the brain.

 

I won’t share my life to save a stranger.

I bow my head and realize I love myself

more than them.

 

But the kindness (or the guilt) that exists

in this same confused heart

led me to ring their phone and enlist

to recompense my cowardice,

service as a surrogate for my blood.

 

So now I am a piece of The Cross

that crucifies the valiant,

the gatekeeper. I let them in

to be questioned, stretched out,

poked and squeezed. I lead them in

so their arms can be pierced

and help make them saviors,

because I could not (or would not)

be one of the sacrificed.

 

When they leave, they smile at me.

I offer them paltry refrains of gratitude,

the only they will ever receive.

I hand them a plastic water bottle (or a tiny can of juice)

and a crinkly bag of Oreos.