A virgin in white stands beside her father, who fathered

Her seemingly just a few days ago in the back seat.

Her mother smiles, because she's gone farther

Than getting knocked up by a good man.

As vows are said, she wonders: Will she have the best of both worlds?

Of course, she has to;

She was such a "good girl."

The congregation celebrates and raises up their glass,

Yet swallow the first sip skeptically.

They know only about one in two will last

Through the stress of success.

Later, in shock they will wonder: Were they not meant to be?

"Meant to be" is silly.

It was the spaces in between.

A monster in orange sits with the countenance of innocence,

And yet his own blood declares, "guilty."

His mother can only pray for his repentance

Or perhaps his acquittal.

In wonder, she wonders: What God is responsible for this?

It just doesn't make sense;

He was such a "good boy."

By all around, she's scorned and disbelieved

It has to be her fault - birthing a monster,

And yet had they only the power to perceive

Past immediate evil

Then they would see: That he was born just as you and me.

It makes perfect sense;

It was the spaces in between.

A scholar in black stands upon a stage, one among his class,

And yet more nervous now than ever before.

His parents sigh, "He's out at last."

They send him out.

The sheep-boy wonders: Where did all these wolves come from?

Oh, that's right.

Time to be a man.

Year after year he toils for minimum and maximum wages.

Seeking that perfect compromise (time and money); he files

His certification of ambition amidst a thousand pages

Signed in triplicate.

Someday, he'll wonder: When did apathy replace my dreams?

It snuck in

The spaces in between.

An addict sits in a velvet-lined pew - one of the few

People who are actually listening to the Word.

That righteous assembly (a jury of peers), self-tried and true,

They think, "Raca!"

Her "brothers" wonder: "What is she doing here?"

Heathen. Infidel. Swine.

Unworthy of pearls.

The hosts of heaven celebrate with angelic cheer and song,

As a new convert stands for "Just As I Am."

Yet, the Devil wagers it won't be too long.

Until she falls.

He sits and wonders: "How many conversions have I seen

Before I dragged them down

The spaces in between?"

A newborn virgin cries - birthed by an addict, unplanned,

Sired by a monster, and delivered by an apathetic scholar.

He will not be loved by kin nor flaunted

In the face of strangers.

His social worker wonders: "How many like him have I seen?"

She ponders Matthew.

Chapter eighteen, verse three

So when a new-made mother mourns - sudden, inexplicable death -

Curses the face of God (the Almighty, the All-Knowing).

I begin to join the in the cursing, then I stop. I hold my breath.

Because I remember,

And I wonder: "Perhaps His mercy is farther reaching than even I can dream?"

Perhaps a soul was spared.

The spaces in between.