i wonder if jesus is up there in some
horse-drawn chariot or a simple four-legged
chair with splinters and swirling knots like
galaxies; i wonder if he sees me blinking away flakes
of the day like old sawdust, shaking my head like a
wet dog, chewing my lip in the sometimes subtle
braille of anxiety; maybe i am a single white cell
in the blood of the body of the earth, and he
is the life-breath and sacred form of god, divine
offspring, scented like linen and cloves and
clothed in draped fabrics, blood-stained in poetry;
he doesn’t even throw down a couplet of cloth,
but rather dreams of earthly pleasures, perhaps
and what does he do with all those letters i
send? i think he puts them with the rest in a
giant box under a sacred, deep-rooted tree; maybe
one day i’ll find an autographed picture with a
“hey, s--, best wishes, jesus” on my doorstep
if i’m lucky.