Christ at the Door

(OB1 lamented)

Christ, if you came knocking
At my door another time,
And not so close to death,
I might have answered.
But you've wrapped yourself in
Others' flesh too many times
To force your presence on me.

Without an answer back,
Without an acknowledgment,
You ignored me when
I cried out to you,
When I pled you my case.
Too many times I've splintered
My fists on the unopened door:

There, in the rasp and click
Of mechanical breathing
Machines and suction tubes;
There in charred children's
Flesh and bandaged bodies;
There in parents' anguished looks—
The grief, the pain unfolding.

I've seen enough of you
There, in old bodies, pleading
To be released in death,
To suffer not long
Endless days of nothing
There in wasting forevers
In the prisons of the old;

There, beside dead father's
Corpse, the widow grieving and
The child not touching,
The flesh growing cold,
The anguishing feeling,
The truth of separation:
No more tomorrows of him;

There, in cheap wine mists of
Consciousness clouded clots of
Memories fading
In a green bottle
Sea of forgetfulness:
There is no room in the inn
For the alcohol children;

There, there in a hundred
Deaths' hundred thousand dyings,
Where I have seen your face,
I reached out to them,
I reached out to hold them
Because I saw them crying.

And now I am burned out.
Now I am burned out and dead.
The little left to me—
My specially loved—
You have begun to eat.
And when I cry out to you,
You crucify me with pain.

Once more, from your left hand,
The unfolding question-marks,
The tear-rimmed eyes brimming,
The coming of death,
The silent anguish they
Strain to hold within themselves,
Within their webs of aching.

Thus, god, I am tired.
Thus, god, so goddamned tired:
No resurrecting strength
Is left where fires
Consumed my heart, and
Left cremated ashes in
My flesh, an empty vessel.