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.
