Dark Curls Poem by Rebekah Gamble

I have wronged
the girl with the long dark hair
who asked for nothing
but to follow me.
I have wronged her.

See, I am not Christ,
although I am called Teacher,
and some mistakenly think
I am their savior.
I am not Christ.

See, the moon is yellow
like old blood on a shirt in Brazil
and death stares down at me
from the moon.
The moon is yellow and full.

I was afraid for her;
no, it was that I had logic for her.
How long would I actually be there to follow?
Death is on my heels.
Still, my logic has wronged her.

I was unsure,
though I am never unsure, simply unknowing,
that I would teach her enough to continue
when the dust road felt my absence.
How could I have doubted the universe?

So the soles of my feet itch;
I am the vagabond they whisper about,
the odd one who knows too much,
but I always return to tell her
details and patterns; she sees through my eyes.

I have wronged her.
Perhaps the future will make it right.
Would she still cry 'Let me go with you! '
without consideration, without question,
with the faith she had before I wronged her?