He didn't molest me technically

He didn’t molest me 
technically.

He was just being 
a helpful coach 
holding my towel 
while I showered 
the same way he held 
his Bible in our 
Sunday school class
where his word 
was the law. 

It wasn’t that different 
than the time he scoffed
at Nike Airs and said
Chuck Taylors were 
perfectly good 
basketball shoes.

“That’s a fine piece of 
equipment you have.
Be sure you wear 
a cup to protect it.“ 

He pointed 
with that long fingernail
on his left index finger,
the hand he used 
to slap my thigh 
when I sat next to him 
on the bench. 

Maybe if my friend Joey 
hadn’t said, "That was weird..." 
when he came back 
from his shower 
I wouldn’t have 
thought twice about it. 

Just a coach 
Sunday school teacher 
scoutmaster 
taking care of the boys 
entrusted to his care 
as the pillar of a
Southern Baptist Church 
that wasn’t even 
that fundamentalist.

Why did it look small 
every time I peed after that? 

Did the bullying start 
before or after that? 

Why did my AA sponsor 
ask me what was my part 
the next time I allowed 
that moment into my mind
decades later digging 
out my old resentments? 

Why did my cousin 
chastise me for seeking 
attention when I made 
my first #metoo post?

Why do I feel my stomach 
herniate even now 
for something I’ve already 
therapized to death 
that didn’t even count?

Why do I fantasize 
about whipping him 
with lightning continuously 
throughout his tortured afterlife? 

Why do I need every 
drop of the rage 
inside my belly to land 
on the white evangelical
men who probably never 
actually molested anyone?

Why do I need to be 
promised that they 
really will burn in hell?