Garden Ground Epistle

I. 

When You hollowed out my ribs And dug the seeds from my blooming lungs I called it grace 

And when Your teeth punctured their membranes To suck the nutrients  I thought it must be penance 

Before You spat the juices,  Watching them soak into the curb  And I saw it was a crucifixion. 

II. 

Crucifixion 

Fixion 

Fiction 

Fix it 

Fix this 

Do it. 

Fix it. 

You have the power.  Cup it—gleaming, bubbling miracle  In Your palms. 

Idly slide    the fizzing cure  Between Your fingers  Watch it dull  & flake  on Your knuckles  Pick apart the 

sticky 

pieces 

To blow their lifeless Might 

What Might have been 

If You only You Might’ve 

I Might not have 

in my eyes. 

And still 

I pray 

Beseech 

entreat 

You to spit  in the Mighty muck,  press Your thumbs  to my searing eyelids 

Heal Me! 

Fix It. 

Or at least tell me I’m blind 

III. 

Blind devotion kneels at Your tomb. Boulder  still unrolled. 3 days expired; 3 months  Stale. Bread crumb pebbles straddle  the garden grout—Gonggitdol  tossed from pierced palms, splayed in a 5 pronged  star—pointed like thorns that carve  the forehead. Phantom blood drips down mine;  before it can flood my blurry irises I should close my eyes,  accustom myself to that dark, bend my face to  the dirt, and pray in whispered supplication ‘til Your voice  turns my head or the stink of my rotting corpse  mixes with Yours