God, some mornings
I hope you’ll arrive
with your fish & your loaves,
turn my water into
mangosteens, my ideas—
like the widow’s emptying oil jars—
into an ever-plenty storehouse.
But when you come here
with your hands empty
& all I see are those
beautiful frightening holes,
no longer red but dried
into smooth quiet shutters,
I am not awed
the way I should be—
for I, being someone
driven only by what
I can & cannot sell say,
that’s it? They are long,
terrible holes—streaks
that stretch the distance
between myself & my sin.
The weight of a thousand
anathema years.
What do I know
about holiness, or what
magnificent gifts
can reside in that space
between carpal & carpal—
Why do you linger here
at the threshold
of this house, persistent
ineffable Body!
I can’t escape
your all-consuming
window-wrists—I look
through them & see
no broken bones. In fact,
they reside perfect
in your God-skin, as if
they were built there
on the First Day.