"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"
No prayer - yet.
There will be many days and
nights to offer prayer.
No, no
prayer. A shout of anger and frustration
Barked up to an indifferent world.
Shame and fear, a calmer voice,
“Is there a chance they could
have made a misdiagnosis?”
None and now,
Blood,
Chaotic and lost, turns on itself
And consumes the host.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
Jesus Sweet Christ.
Where is that muscular savior,
That laughing
God son?
He has gone to the field with his
disciples and
I can see him at the crest of the hill,
Boldly swinging his
scythe.
Bless this harvest.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
Where is that rustling warmth?
Where are the delicate hands
Running through my hair,
Running through my hair,
Drawing my throbbing head to rest
On the breasts that fed
a child God?
Jesus, Mary and
Joseph.
There she sits in high crowned glory,
Robed in the sky,
Her eyes glittering and indifferent.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
So here we are
Left with little Joseph.
Patient as bees,
Slowly he draws the blade
Along the beam edge
To erase
the last imperfection.
He hears the crowd outside
Swept along its way to
Jerusalem and
He returns to his tools.
He returns to his tools.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
Joseph leads the donkey along
the path,
Unburdened now – no mother, no king.
And I follow.
The donkey’s
foot is sure along the path
But so close to the cliff edge
I can hear breezes lift
With the heat to move my hair.
They whisper
how easily the sparrows rise
On their wings, how easy is the flight
Across the
river. But if I gaze over the edge
The rocky bed is very far below
And the water is black with the dead.
