William Heyen
Jesus
I was walking toward a city
along its legendary road.
This was the time of Jesus,
but he was dead, but called
as I was walking toward Him,
if I could. His cave
grew near an entrance to the city
where wind began. My love
would be tested here:
all the trees along this road
where he’d once walked, were glass,
every limb and leaf, planted
for those of us
who would try to reach, to see him.
In increasing wind, forehead
cut by a falling blossom.
I stopped to wipe my blood
on my robe’s sleeve, my hem.
No use. It flowed
from my slashed ear, my side.
I knew, then, that I would die
here outside the city
in these leaves. The trees’ blades
whirled down as Jesus called me.
Page(s) 60
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