Testament

I saw Jesus on the bridge, his hand

coiled over a bruise on his rib cage.

I said, Jesus, are you alright?

He told me of a feast he’d been to

a few nights prior, where there’d

been a damn bit of drama. His words.

His open linen shirt showed the tan

on his chest as brown as his feet.

We walked together toward town.

I shared my water with him, elated

that my lips touched the same bottle

as he – a kind of kiss, an ease.

I’m not a groupie, but that gesture

slanted my life in a direction,

some brand new way of being.

It was like a wave came over me

or I’d fallen down a deep hole,

I couldn’t think of what it was.

He said, it is like when you were

born, which you don’t remember.

I guess so, how would I know?

We talked of fossils and how each

iteration moves us a little closer to God’s

idea of who we are meant to be.

How each generation pushes

us toward goodness. I laughed,

Goodness, is that it?

He laughed along with me,

his long hair framing his face,

Yes, nothing more.

We rested at a bus stop, I checked

his wound – a deep gash,

I worried it had pierced his liver.

Holding his hand, I told him of

the light in me and the few

occasions I’d known I was good.

A bus arrived, it wasn’t his,

but I left him anyway.