I trusted you once—to
carry me, swollen feet to
the higher hills, whisp’ring at
the hilt of cackle and chaos—to
up and on the garden mane, stroke the
green, together minding what it means
to be this human thing I am—if never well.
You carried me, and yes, upon the hill, up to the
hilt of trees, but not to plenary peace I had conferred
as right upon myself: not peace at all, not lush
so as the trees do in their season: but hoisted me atop
the crane of worlds, that by self-sewn same you’d have me
quell the lie and cheat and steal and me that I have always
done and loved and unabashed been: yes, Rabbi, you hoisted up my arms
that I be crucified.