30 December 2011


I wonder if he knows me.

I mean I know he knows about me.
I know he knows what I’m about. 
I know he listens when I speak. 
And when I don’t.


I wonder if he knows what I don’t. 
I wonder if he hears what I won’t. 
I wonder if he sees when I cope 
silently and privately with the impossible.

I wonder if he knows what he wants when he says he wants me.
I wonder 
and then he smiles.
And I think, 
he can’t know; how could he?

If he knew, how could he smile so serenely? 
How could he touch so tenderly? 
How could he contain my carcass with such confidence?

Then I wonder how much power he has. 
I’ve seen him move mountains. 
And I’ve witnessed him feed field-fulls of fraught nonbelievers his truth until they were no longer famished and frail. 
But is he a healer? 
If I touch the hem of his garment,
Will I be cured, or fall further into torment?
Can a dead dame be brought back to life or aren’t such marvels frozen in the time capsules we call theologies?

or is he my savior?

I wonder.

I wonder, because I’m broken. 
And no matter how many magicians I make my master
a miracle has yet to be performed.
Instead, I leave each false prophet more broken than before.
But I wonder if he could be any different.
And I wonder how I would know if he was.

If only I could taste his victory. 
If only I could sense his pride.
If only I could be what he sees when he envisions me at his side.
But I can’t.
So I wonder.
About this wonder.

In awe.
24 december 2012.

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