The part that strikes me most
is not the crack-whip on tables,
the discombobulated sheep turning fast circles
in danger of hurting themselves, or His disdain
for the clinking change now bouncing off
the great stones with such a spark
as if to ignite a fire.
The image in my head is Jesus in a corner
weaving ropes into a scourge all morning,
rather alone, misfit in His temple home.
He cannot entrust Himself to them, even His fans.
Yet His message is interdependence.
The bights in the rope rest against His thigh,
a somber reminder, an extended sigh.
I get; Lord, do I get,
braiding intentions, wishes, and plans
while the heat creeps
up Your neck, while tears for the vulnerable
flow down Your cheeks—thumbing
the familiar fraying, feeling You must
twist every expectation in the inverse direction
of an ancient cowlick to make them fit.
The cords rubbing Your skin will always resist.
—Winner of the Anglican Theological Review’s first poetry competition and published in Summer 2013 (Volume 95, No. 3; page 525). Poem appears here with author’s permission.
has been disabled by a neuroimmune illness throughout her adult life. She has spent many years housebound or bedridden, and impaired cognitively and audio-visually, making engagement with and composition of literature hard-won. Nonetheless, early publication credits include the Christian Century, Christianity & Literature, and Crab Orchard Review. She has also been awarded first place in poetry competitions at the Anglican Theological Review and the Alsop Review.
