———————-Holy Thursday, adoration
Headlights enter through the window like a mob
——-and, in a flash, pace
the repurposed cafeteria. Jesus in the garden;
Jesus in the Altar of Repose. Most of us resist
——flinching when in dim light
someone misjudges a folding chair.
All of us note the rain pulsing like a heartbeat.
——Then we turn back.
I try to meditate on the agony, the sweat
turning to blood, not entirely unlike the first miracle,
——but mostly I imagine
the smell of wet lilacs or worry about puddles
waiting in the parking lot. Someday, I’ll swear
——it’s the silence I miss
until I find it, silence only, in some ordinary room,
inattentive and ringing like an aloof promise
——of too many little victories
and no promise of shedding blood.
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.