Lies of Jesus

Jesus spoke (I lie,
it was the open mouth of a morning glory
uttering one last breath  of starlight)
"I did not come to forgive you."

The new moon's blood-drenched tooth (I lie,
it was the glint of a bobcat kunjed in honeysuckle)
whispered, "Why are you here then?"

Jesus answered (I lie, it was my own tongue
entering my chest like a paring knife,
flooding my body with strawberry wine)
"So that flesh could forgive the calumny
of its self-wounding."

Now I hear the sound of mist, the gong
of cattails over the wetland,
thrush song up-spiraling, corpses
of fallen angels bloating to the surface,
lilies.

I do not lie
when I tell you that I am awake,
that I breathe through naked feet,
mud gushing between my toes, knowing
that the bones of the earth
are the of heaven.

I am the cause, and I am the effect.
I blame no one.


Painting, Monet of course