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Denying

In his body’s haze and swelter,
In the furrow of appetite, 
The Son of Man holds out his hand
To stem the stream of lush requests, 

Inimical ramblings, templed 
Invitations. He pushes back 
Subtlety and evanescence, 
Strains of his own sweat amid talk 

Waxing of angels in their charge
Who wait for the chance to bear up.
Ripening for his ministry, 
Refulgent on the mountaintop,
In hunger and need, he rejects
Illusion and its offering, 
Temerity and its mayhem 
Touchstones showing silver and gold
Even when they seem genuine,
Even when the road before him
Needles toward crushed olives and cross
Nests with those who will betray him.

Leap 

[W]hen Elizabeth heard the salutation of Mary, the  
babe leaped in her womb.  
—Luke 1:41 

In the timbers of a hill country voice, 
I hail you across the wreath of limestone 
and yard, you—God’s authentic, sparrow choice—
mettle in the tendons, pluck through the bones. 
We catch the thick upwelling, blood ready 
to spurt through our skin, like pinion falling 
or prophecy rising, a strong eddy 
in this water of custom. Such prizing 
of youth and age engulfs our pregnant sphere. 
No worry over haggling lunatics, 
uprisings, whether we’ll go or stay here. 
Softly, they’ll come, both prayers and walking sticks,
for the sacrifice of want and regret. 
These arms wide open now, like fishing net.

Seeing Someone I Used to Know

She walks with others 
across the chapel, her voice 
trailing through the pews, 
hovering like a wisp of candle light. 
I take my place among the heart’s altar, 
wonder about the years unfurled 
between us, the grass clippings, 
the hailstones, lights reaffirming
near the windows. Like the janitor, 
I remain unnoticed, 
debate whether to interrupt 
the jostling of goodwill 
or the smile connected 
to an index finger. She continues 
her reverie, her whisperings, 
prayers lifted with the rise 
of shoulders and songs. The past 
caroms me to the pulpit, the sacrament 
table, the bishop’s gray jacket, 
leads me to nod toward others 
I’ve just barely met. 
And it’s not because of shame 
or fear or even the desire 
to stay unseen that prevents me 
from seeing how her life 
has come to pass. And it’s not 
because I’m unfeeling or disinterested 
in my friend’s good keeping. 
It’s a matter of control 
and letting go,
letting the past surprise me 
without commentary and justification 
as I take and eat the bread, 
knowing, regardless of the hour 
or season of worship, 
the past will arrive quietly 
in an unchosen hour 
warming, perhaps bowing, 
like a candle flickering 
at what once was 
and who we used to be.