There was reclamation to be done;
the path being overrun with runners
and having caught my foot in the matrix
of vines did I skin my palms in the thorns that received me.
The bedolach boughs hung lynched by their own
sinuous bark. The timber broken in winter.
Limb wounds blackening with sap
invigorated by Spring - place my wounded hands
there to regain my feet - the scent and tack
of the granular bdellium gum
flexing in my fingers,
adherent over the abrasion;
narrative in sediment.
There must be a handprint on the
frame of the door where I rested. There must
be a handprint on his robes where I clutched
at him to stay.
See, even now by the lamps of our dinner,
here in the coated creases of my hands
is the soil from which we draw this bread.
And here are the thorns and the thistles,
Red and infected are the prints that bear them.
In the sweat of my face you can see
How I hid the tears of my weeping.
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