Jesus, the Daoist

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An olive tree writhes and wriggles
in its ancient solidarity—
A cross does not move.
Make it three-as-one on that
hill of skulls
to see what comes alive.
 
There’s a triangle tattoo
engraved on my leg.
Only now does it occur to me:
I never asked for a triangle.
Someone I used to love
poked it into me,
my flesh and blood
open on a drunken night.
The next morning,
she wouldn’t speak to me.
 
What I didn’t choose
stays forever;
What I did choose
died long ago.
 
This is true Christianity.
A bending, swaying, whipping sapling
outlasts a storm
to which a telephone pole bows and splinters.
The nail prints on Jesus’s palms are still empty,
the scar on his side still open,
and all the world fits right there,
within the space
his flesh and blood will never reach.

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