I stared at your gardening shoes
feeling as mutilated as the blades of grass
stuck between the crevices of the treads
my cuticles bled from the thorns
for I do not know how to tend roses.
yet I form a crown from the stems
pressing deeper into my temples
is this biblical agony—
did jesus ever get cold feet?
did he want to rain-check his reckoning?
his resurrection?
did he feel god turning his back?
did his crown smell of roses?
for all I smelled was iron
in the midst of rusting
and I felt like a coward
saving face—staying put.
maybe, if I push a little longer
you would turn and meet my gaze
tell me i’ve been reborn
into something worth loving
your new covenant
forcing my blood and body
down your throat
uttering amen
and swallowing blindly in faith