Throes

The saint flung himself
into a thorn bush to incur
wounds worthy
of his joy.

Beyond what he imagined,
petals broke loose—so like
flesh he could not
look upon them.

Everything pushed
toward him: air, the ocean
hauling onto the edge, the shifting
medieval light.

Who knows sanctity of half-closed eyes?

Blessed be blood and its metallic
taste. Blessed the fool who flings
himself sick into the fever
of miracle.

Take his hands. Turn palms up—no
lines: not life, nor love, nor children.
This is not a silence, but a music
beyond the range.

If his wounds need binding,
rend your shirt
and bind.