A boy screaming in pain
sounds like Jesus preaching.
A teen girl giving birth only
to let it go looks like the ghost.
While walking to your bed
I took a wrong turn,
room twenty-three was not
where I left it. I ran into a friend.
Quiet and wise he was
hung from an IV hook, blood-
soaked silver floating in
His stomach.
He asked me how heaven was.
I told him it was loud.
He said that it was only the
beeping. I breathe a mouthful
of blood, who do I think I am?
Am I Gabriel, cursing a girl
to greatness, at the expense
of her son?
Am I Peter, a fisherman lost
in the flurry, denying my
own salvation?
Am I Pilate, bound to kill,
washing my hands of
my mistakes?
Or am I just here,
sat puddled in relief
that I’m not alone my-
Self?
There are more souls
in Heaven, Judas says,
than Hell could ever hold.
I turn away and quake.
My hand trembles in yours
as a thorn takes your blood
the Eucharist of your own.
A speck of dust On a speck
of dust swirled together, holding
one another. Together alone
within
Him.