Jesus the Low Rider

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take a little triptake a little trip with me

I see him through the keyhole,

swaying below the porchlight and his halo of moths,I smell the wine on his breath and I feelweak in the knees: this is my blood.I release the chain and fall into his arms,again. his cheeks are comely with rows ofjewels, his neck with chains of gold.he wears an iron cross, a confederatebandanna and his chain whips clamour,they sting my fingers when I undress him.the soles of his motorcycle boots arethe cartography of his absences, each run,each time he leaves I swear it is the last the door slams and I sweep the glass andsplinters, his temper is epic and desperate:I love an outlaw

who talks about betrayal in his sleep,his hands rake the sheets and I cleansethem, with tears. in the morningI hear the Apostles circling, theirhigh raked mufflers are stormcloudsthat portend my loss, my loneliness.Christ, I am desolate without him.he bakes loaves of bread in highspirits and I remove the oilcloth .-my shroud of Turin -- and polish thebike. its suicide clutch and chrome railsshine with water and vinegar, thereis a prophetic grammar in theirdagger design. I see the crash thatkills him, the rain soaked road,his stillness. I see myselfin shadow, resurrecting him. Ihave the gospel lettered on myforearms, in gold and green.I have learned to live with sorrow,and I am a believer. Jesus kissesme, hard on each cheek, before heturns, and rides away.

© Crosbie Lynn