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.