What I was made to do

It began with the great cross, the canvas 

of the suffering soft-eyed Jesus hanging. 

Every morning I walk past His flayed body 

in Saint Joseph school, so naked, so beautiful.

I want to save Him. 

Others ignore the rolled-back eyes, the red ooze 
on His palms, His terrifying agony, but every 
morning my eyes lift to His heart, to where the bullies 

harpooned him. 

In my dreams I am His Madonna across whose lap, 

in whose arms that beautiful coiled creature drapes, 

that gorgeous bleeding tree, unswaddled, prismatic, 

that defeated God. 

And I am His refuge. I offer myself up for 

that purpose. 

It is what I was made to do. 

Red

I watch us all now--all of us, but mostly

my own strange face in the mirror--

as if we are bleeding.

We are in the bleeding stage of living. 

The pouring out phase. 

Life is pouring from us in red, thin, swirls 

like the red juice of boiled beets 

down the kitchen drain. 

Our bodies now as warm, as soft, as sleepy, 

as pungent as those easy to slice, 

those tender beets.

After the bleeding only a stain remains, 

only a red blemish is left of all our red

hot desire now gone. 

I turn all night with that thought.