Put Your Hand In My Wound

EASTER, 2022

And the wind blew the buds off the trees,

scattering red across the black road.

Jesus out of his tomb and wandering

among the rotting corpses in Ukraine,

dragging his bandages behind him.

Put your hand in my wound, he says.

What I wanted to be born from this is lost.

Do you still doubt me that the world is broken?

Nothing has changed.

The God I thought I knew has receded

into a twilight of blood-clotted beards.

All these years and you've not noticed,

as your man Blake showed you,

all angels have a single hoof.

Your reckoning is with yourself.