these hoof prints
cloven evidence
hunters seek
there is a gospel of mary
on a fifth-century papyrus
that is not canon
& an infancy gospel of thomas
where the child Jesus
rolled 12 sparrows from clay & spit.
they flew away, singing. not everything old
is true, & not everything true
is comfortable. or relevant. or gospel,
even if that word is in the title
glyphed in aramaic or greek
we who sing through mouths
lit holy know salvation does not fly
with a tale of 12 sparrows
or a celibate Christ, or a married one;
but the divine breathing, bridging & dying
a way for us to God through flesh
& sacrifice. a scrap of papyrus
does not change the Christ i know
who walked through death.
the cross & the tomb are empty.
thomas the doubter
put his hands inside that body
before he believed.
it is not what is known
but what is risked that saves
without touching
we ante with spirit
& faith goes all-in.
we know the voice
& the stakes
*** if you want to listen to my stammer, you can do so here
a heart
lives inside my tongue,
in my fingertips, pulses
through my pen
& i never know
what secret it will speak
just for the sake of singing it
& there i am,
left cleaning all that
unrepentant truth-telling
that can be messier
than a three-year-old
with fingerpaints
who has doodled your name
in smudges
over all the windows
in the house
just because
the sun striking those letters
will melt you, indelible & fused
into glass–no need to ask
who did it–
my fingerprints
are the evidence
spread over all this everything
in primary colors
courting sleep, sheepless
nothing to count down but breath
from 20 to dreams
***actually, with the way my sleep pattern works, I have to count back from about 200, but too many syllables 😉
Susan Daniels Poetry 