Jesus looks down at my family
from the wall.
Jesus with an Anglo-Saxon face.
Delicate hands raised
like a woman’s, hushing us.
The icon of a heart on his breast,
an evening in the history
of our catastrophes,
a shaman putting his life
on a plate,
the nourishment of his teachings.
Our lives redeemed by the kindness
of a faceless God.
Our lives staring in the underbrush
from their bright childhoods.
Your face is human,
good enough for me.
Your words repeat
over and over
the need to know
how much we are loved,
how precious our lives,
how huge the arms
that hold the sparrows,
adored in its arms.
And how our prayers
are cherished word for word,
right or not,
then quenched
when we have reached
the silence
at the bottom of our hearts.