Come: Sunday

You said Jesus would come into me,
into my heart. I remember your words,
“Come back if you don’t feel it; we
will try again.” I came back. I came back.
I remember the pith of those years:
yellow walls, ringed with paper chains.
Chains the color of flesh: “incarnation,”
you said. What use was flesh if not my own
to give away; what use was your gentleness?
Incarnation was the wooden quietness
of your pleasure, your tongue on the roof
of my mouth, the thrill of your coming
to fetch me. Jesus was a bulge beneath me
when you held me on your lap. I remember
the jealousy of those days, the come-thous,
the founts, your incarnation, the flesh-chain
reaching me through all these years.

 
 

John Allen Taylor lives and writes in Spokane, Washington where he is the fiction editor for Rock & Sling. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Booth, The Cresset, and Devil’s Lake. Contact and other writing at johnallentaylor.com.