I’m wearing black
because I’m mourning
the success of others.

(It’s okay, no one will read this.)

But I’m grateful for the thicket
behind my in-laws’ house—
the frog pond, the plywood bridge.

When I close my eyes there,
I hear You building a home
for me not made of applause

or money,
if I’ll accept it.

Most days, I don’t.

But when I was young and unemployable,
I cried real tears,
proclaiming This is God loving me,
even in defeat.

I want that faith again,
trust that outstrips understanding,
a whisper of reassurance,

on a path I know nothing about.

This article appears in November 2023.

Justin Lacour lives in New Orleans and edits Trampoline: A Journal of Poetry. He is the author of four chapbooks, including Hulk Church, forthcoming from Belle Point Press.