Deborah J. Shore
The part that strikes me the most
is not the crack-whip on the tables,
the discombobulated sheep turning fast circles
in danger of hurting themselves, or the disdain
for the clinking change, some of it bouncing off
the great stones with such a spark
it could seem to ignite a fire.
The image in my head is Jesus in a corner
weaving ropes into a scourge all morning,
rather alone, misfit in His temple home.
He cannot entrust Himself to them, even His fans.
Yet His message is communion, interdependence.
The bights in the rope rest against His thigh,
a somber reminder, an extended sigh.
I get; Lord, do I get,
braiding intentions, wishes, plans while heat creeps
up Your neck, while tears for the vulnerable
flow down Your cheeks—thumbing
the familiar fraying, feeling You must
twist every expectation in the inverse direction
of an ancient cowlick to make them fit.
The cords rubbing Your skin will always resist.