You’ve thought of it, but no:

the wrist is a narrow, helpless thing,

and you have traced its rivers

through the skin. All morning

you’ve been flexing your hand,

and you’ve seen in those cords

a dear throat, clearing. How

would you survive the streets

of heaven if your hands dangled

helpless at your sides? This

is how God debases us:

He finds us starving in wilderness

and tosses our bread to the dirt.

And if we try to hide

some of what’s left (you know

His excesses) it turns to a bag

of worms. In Jerusalem

there are trees so old

they have known the brush

of His hem. You picture

a redwood, but no—these

are stunted, twisted things,

curving in on themselves,

a terrified wringing. It’s no stretch

to see yourself on your knees

in heaven’s back alley,

snuffling for manna

like a dog. Should you see Him,

you’d have no defense

but what the trees knew,

a turning inward, a hiding.






Photo by Skånska Matupplevelser