J.C.

11 June 2013

I watch you knead the dough,
the loaves that are my bones and
taste the blood that oozes forth
from the flour and water that are my hands and fingers
in my mouth, like little drew drops on grass blades,
little beads of mortality on my tongue--
this is my body

said Christ before stepping forward to
face his self-righteous suicide,
expecting the disciples to drink his bodily fluids
with pleasure and rejoice.

These are my palms into which you
drive rusted nails because I asked you to.

I, whispering Please into your ear with
sugary breath and
handing you the hammer,
crawl into the holes you've drilled into my
feet
and plead, "Again."

There is nothing we love more
than our game of tug-of-war,
yanking the rope so hard that our own
skin slips off

and we wear it
like eye patches.

I watch you knead the dough that is my
wish
with a handgun as a rolling pin,
the barrel as your baking pan, and
you shoot me
clear through my nose with it--

I with a closed-lipped complacent smile believing,
"What a martyr am I" and you the
victim of my plot. I am the
heroin and villain of my story

in search of a face on which to place
the blame and
a pair of hands onto which to wipe
the blood I can't wash off:

an eyeball mashed on the shower wall and
a bit of brain clogging the drain--
I leave your name in my
suicide note and sign it

--the Son of God