For love, this pain, for love
There is a joke, that I
can count on my hands
the prayers answered
for I have none.
Pity brought me into a garden
Pity clothed my flesh vers pain
(There have been no angels in gardens,
I know, since long and long ago)
but when I weep, my arms
remain clean, gleaming silver
under the waning moon
The silver, hands, hooks
his love barbs, desiring no
hands himself. This lust cannot
be of God. I thought I
was not deserted wholly,
but his whispers, oh, his whispers
I would be beautiful without hands,
he says. I would bite them off,
if I could, so deeply they offend me.
They are not mine! he screams
to demons I cannot know.
It is no wonder I named him
"Sorrowful"
so full of strange aches
from his birth, my tears
only water; -- his eyes,
my King his eyes! so strange
at a son with hands, his own
limp as he stared at the boy
and did not question the name.
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