Incarnate | poem

Non-believer,
your lashes
fashion mystery—stories
of thorny eyes, silk wine,
blood spraying stone.
Non-believer, you
are the anchor in God’s
ruby sea. Your arms
are pillars, your mouth
a cross, your skin
scripture.
Non-believer, you
bleed Truth. The Gospel’s
in your hips and fists, under
chewed nails, traced
fingerprints.
You
are the incarnate
Unknown—something
you hate so much—what
I love most.

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