you were always so good at being a miracle
astounding in your generosity
doubtless you belonged to god
born to hay, willing to wander
source secrecy shrouded in starlight
with calloused fingers you brushed maggie’s wild hair behind her ear
later you pressed the sole of her foot with your thumbs until peace filled her face
once, with a schoolboy’s naïve voice
you whispered to wealthy men
“you are not yet dead, there’s still time”
your father spun an age of promises and death
but you birthed an intervention of faith
showed us the pleasures of life on the edges
the abundance of prayers by the sea
the potential of water to hold us
when we relinquish the weight of judgment
the healing possibilities hidden in a body
to trust the chapters written by mystery
and the crisis is
in your absence your name can become a spell of confusion
for centuries, your true face erased
your lessons lost in a tomb
but it’s not too late, there’s still time
your story tells us to become miraculous
there is a teacher in the desert
corruption might swallow the center…
slip to the margin, cling to the shameless
no one will understand your breath
but your skeletal whispers echo
your truth slips thru thieving fingers and lying tongues
because of you we know we can make mistakes
and be worthy of ritual
no holiness is above the reach of violence
a child of god still lives in the world
yes, if you spring forth from love
they will come with knives and nails
but there is life after crucifixion
and survival renders a miraculous swagger
yell the truth from the pulpit, in the temple, on the corner, at the table
roll the rock, kiss the sky
be the miracle