O Christ––
is it really true You bore
the abandonment of the Father?
When He turned His back on You,
did the darkness consume
Your soul? O Christ, I’m sorry
Your house feels more unholy
than the trash-lined streets I walk to get there.
Why does Your Body have so many
broken bones? If You’re the Healer,
aren’t these parts supposed to be whole?
Aren’t the eyes supposed to be windows
we can crawl through to reach the light
that shines out of the belly of believers?
Aren’t we supposed to be able to make a home
within Your skull? Nest like birds
in the shadow of Your wings?
How do I live here, O Christ, when mere seconds
of terror have severed the nerves
that are meant to carry joy? I want to dwell
in Your house forever because Your light
is more beautiful than the midday sun
in a place whose sky is as big as the world,
but O Christ, I don’t know how. Not when
every Sunday I see burning steeples in the corners
of my eyes and the pastor’s voice echoes
like a tightened fist and the small talk before service
drags me back to the front pew
I was chained to as a child.
O Christ, tell the Father about all the colors in my chest.
Ghost that’s Holy, translate these groanings
into Your mother tongue. O God, please,
hide not Your face from me.
When Your Body feels like a wild animal,
when the eyes of my siblings look so kind
but I cannot meet them, when their words run like honey
through my hands that won’t stop shaking, is it alright
if I stay here instead: sheltered in the darkness
of an unformed Word, curled up like a fawn fast asleep
in the center of Your tongue?