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.