Sunday, December 25, 2016

JESUS AND THE WATER



Now,
Tell me how you remember him.

At the marriage at Cana,
When his heart beat hot
And the table ran dry,
he touched you, and you then were red, red, too? 

Or, on the sea of Galilee,
When the wind whined and whipped,
The sky his roof, your waves his floor,
And he walked about, a king purposeful in his home?

Or in the upper room,
It lit worried and hurting by candle light,
When he washed the worst with you
And cooed them dry, just before he gathered his wings to leave?

Now,
Listen as I remember him.

In our thrown of linen and straw
When all was laid bare
My limbs and lips spread wide
His tongue a dowsing rod
And like a well, o’ how I was found
I petted the great hair of his head
My small and simple bracelets tinged
As he lapped away with love and majesty
The sun had gone and if it did not come again
I would not have cared
I had given up on the time and language of men
The din of wars, those savage centurial stabs at power
Stood no chance against
The slow and steady building of my pleasure
His hands lifted, held my back up sweetly 
While my shoulders rooted the ground strongly
And then I was greater than any spring
When my own water came
Peace, appeased and freed

Then, 
Before he lifted his head,
I gave the black, black air a gospel:

“I love him
I need him
May the water always lead him”


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