Crux, 1992

I am not comforted by knowing
that he bleeds from his hands and his side
while I rest two thousand years away.
It doesn't make tears stop coming
to think of him with arms
stretched wide as darkness
falls over everything.

I cannot be reached by promises
nor by crucifixion. I can't be bought
by words I've memorized and never understood.

My knees bent I
cannot take this drink. Too much
wine already runs my veins
and holy blood is not shed
to mix with mine.

I want to listen
to whispers that have fallen
silent. I know now
how the shallow breath of prayer is deep
and grace is not a word I hear in church
and write off with a grin and wait
for gods to fall over me when I
cannot pray or hope or hate.

The words I want to feel are alive
but not in me.

A golden cross
strung from the ceiling
reflects the lights from the sanctuary.
I approach the altar pray
I will be strong enough to fall
on my knees again like all the others
and believe.

When the wine
touches my lips I am changed
if only for a moment; I am part god,
part anger and I can taste only wine
not blood.
                         Let this cup pass from me.

c. Melissa K. Dalman, 1992