One Who’s You
I woke up with Jesus
in my fist.
He was a well-groomed,
handsome brunette with modest beard
and a perfectly symmetrical face.
He wiggled free a little
and said “You don’t believe in me.”
Sorry, Sir.
But you always knew that.
“Not you, Stephen Hawking,” he riposted
“universal you.
You believe in the Guy with the spiffy
product identity: the
One who couldn’t be killed,
Whose mother was impregnated
by God, no other,
the One prophesied to Herod,
aneled by anonymous foreign sovereigns,
possessed lower mass density than water,
could multiply bread without yeast, at least,
and reproduced dead fish.
You don’t believe me:
the one conceived out of wedlock
by a girl-child and old-man
runaways,
born in a stable
and no one gave a fuck about,
the murdered and forgotten wretch,
the devoted Jew,
the one who loved a whore,
the original advocate for proletarian emancipation,
the one who could love men,
absolutely,
the one who was feeble,
the one who hungered,
the one who desired,
anguished, and was lost,
the one who loses,
the
one
who
walks
with
you.”
Then he appended,
“By the way, don’t think yourself
so special.
I speak to everyone,
eventually.”
Photograph by JUN HUA EA
