Finger prints



You were imprinted on my fingertips

written as dim memory

in line and skin


I kept your image at arms length

or balled it into a fist

A turning away

from the violence

As if there is no real death in ascending?


As a child

it is true

I was taught to expect some relationship

while being impressed into the feverish tribe

of Jesus watching


Before me

pale lipped men

created tension

bells ringing


with a tiny chaste taste


Who clothed me

in this rag tag skin of living words?

Held hostage



I fall pummeled and wading

in the waves of this unexpected birthing

Free now to love you simply as a man


A man of flesh and bread and wine

who once lived to turn the world.



Artist: Caravaggio