Via Dolorosa
Christmas Eve has come again, and I kneel
under stained glass, under Simon of Cyrene bearing
Jesus’ cross on his thin back, and I wonder if anyone has ever
licked him there—
between Simon’s shoulders, up his spine, tongue a pine bough,
a path of salt and piety longer than the road to Calvary.
I wonder if Simon had ever kissed Jesus on the mouth before
abiding the weight of agony across his shoulders,
loss upending the secret tenderness he
carried inside himself like a second heart, and
I wonder if God has made me wrong
in my wondering of these things, but it’s snowing outside,
flakes as light and small as pennyroyal,
the world suddenly perfect
filigree on the cover of some browning book
covered by feet of silent snow;
stillness bestowed by a nimble God.
Look: a line of footsteps on the outside walk. Look:
whole forests of ice outside the church window,
fishers and nightingales, the final crack
of fragrant branches weighed by leaden white.
