After Mass, I bid him kneel before me
in the sacristy as I have knelt
so many times before the sculpted body
of our Lord. He is in his Sunday best,
shoes his mother shined. Wine we shared
left a rose on each cheek.
He closes his eyes in prayer,
his face as open as a question.
I place my blessing hand on his head
and pull aside my vestments.
Oh, I am as firm as my convictions,
hard as the unbeliever’s heart.
I turn to flesh in the furnace of his mouth.
His neck is like porcelain as I bend
over him, my body blooming
from his throat’s small vase.
I am burning, burning.
I want to bathe him in this cleansing,
hot stream, baptize myself
in the pure flowing drops
of his tears. Look at us.
Look at us before You, Lord.
We are bursting. We are flames.
We are flowers. We are Your holy,
Your broken, faithful children.