———————-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.