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.