Rejected by just about everyone, and nearly myself, and
Jesus, somehow, is there, inside the ragged circle of those who throw stones.
He who may or may not have existed, who was tempted by the devils of his day,
as we all are. The desert wanders through us, sets up shop, leaves us duned.
Here are the devils, after all, marching us barefoot
through fire, and here is this enigma
Photo: Sarah Casey
and here: our blood-bound relations, humanity's tribes.
They dog us, surround us, insist that they love us, punish us
for their sins. The evidence of them
is us, and everywhere, even and especially on the farthest moon of our soul,
where we thought we would never be found.
Caustic, they thrive there; they make us survive there, canaries in mines.
They work us,
work through us, the ones in our blood, the sand in our bones,
the sand in the hourglass of our bones, grinding us down grain by infinite grain, while that
one man stands alongside us, showing us how it's done.
The real work.
With the one we're not sure exists. We've never seen him.
He opens his mouth to our ear, and speaks:
I supercede all deeds, all devils, all demented histories, all the lies that derange you.
Mirage or not to your eye, I sustain you. I run deeper than blood and despair, softer
than sand, longer than time.
Forget all you believe, and what you believe about me. Forget it all. Tabula rasa.
Now, let me sustain you.