communion

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