God, some mornings
I hope you’ll arrive
with your fish & your loaves,

turn my water into
mangosteens, my ideas—
like the widow’s emptying oil jars—

into an ever-plenty storehouse.
But when you come here
with your hands empty

& all I see are those
beautiful frightening holes,
no longer red but dried

into smooth quiet shutters,
I am not awed
the way I should be—

for I, being someone
driven only by what
I can & cannot sell say,

that’s it? They are long,
terrible holes—streaks
that stretch the distance

between myself & my sin.
The weight of a thousand
anathema years.

What do I know
about holiness, or what
magnificent gifts

can reside in that space
between carpal & carpal—
Why do you linger here

at the threshold
of this house, persistent
ineffable Body!

I can’t escape
your all-consuming
window-wrists—I look

through them & see
no broken bones. In fact,
they reside perfect

in your God-skin, as if
they were built there
on the First Day.