Gethsemane

​

I watch the push of soft red petal from the cactus’ tip,

the sticky cobweb strung from spike to spike.

These days, when prayer’s too hoarse, too ripped

for words—I cannot say a word—does that still count?

Answer: we know how his tight mesh of skin that night

leaked drops of blood. And how the angel came,

pushed through the dark like hand through sleeve,

like notes of ordered song from vicious wind. All comes

from inside out. Dread thoughts escape, un-skinned,

and wild—like moths or silver flash of olive leaves—

but, too, the angel comes from where he hid, and sings.

The curtain tears and so does skin and so does prayer;

it is a kind of wordless tearing—our brokenness used

as entry for him; our brokenness filled by his.

​

From "Dawn of this Hunger", 2019