Tuesday, May 26, 2015

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. 

Monday, May 25, 2015


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.