Mountain steaming baptism complete,
One stumble on the path back down,
Skin lost, blood seeps,
Small gravel lacerating
Blood blistering my palms.
Christ fell three times, and I’ve still but once.
One puffy pinhead of Stigmata puckers underneath my skin.
I wait for it to rise,
To scab,
To work its way down or back or up and out,
Wherever scabs go.
Do this in memory of me,
Francis,
Holding onto God,
Bending before him,
Echoing the word into the symphony—
Do this in memory of me.
Scratch and you will see.
Tear away the scab,
Empty-tombed skin bids it rise.
