I REMEMBER
I remember
when I was young,
when I was very young,
before I was four ,
alone in a room,
in the dead house
of a deceased aunt.
My parents were clearing,
the debris of her life.
But I was alone,
in a room with a lamp,
wired, thoughtlessly,
for pain,
or death.
A conector broke, and
in my hand two live prongs
two pins of fire,
shorted and burnt,
my young palm.
Two pins walked,
up my arm towards my heart.
I was alone, though
my parents were near,
alone with pain and fear,
terror burned its stigmnata
into my brain,
and electricity burned its rememberance
on my flesh.
It was only an accident,
by contrast Jesus' wounds,
were deliberate.
He separated from his father by infinity.
his pain was for me.
He stretched out his hands
so that I could wound him.
So here we are,
with a
tale of two hands.
Let us meditate
on his hands,
the marks of our sin,
branding love.
