Monday, November 16, 2015

Magdalena Brzezińska ---------- poem

lema sabachthani

My Christ’s bedsores
are so deep
they can easily enfold my fist.
I have been looking for months
at my distorted face
reflected in the Siloam bottle of morphine
placed by his bed.
His cries,
doctors say,
are just the organism’s memory.

My Christ
only speaks to me
in parables
engraved in his purple veins.


1 comment:

  1. Outstanding imagery and mood. I hope to read more from her.

    ReplyDelete