I am Peter at Gethsemane
where I wake to oak
branches suspended,
spinning like hair in water.
Flora’s night
blanched, a prophet’s
chanting, every caesura’s
quiet steeping, transfiguring
grief to alms.
Stop rhythmic
pleas from your verdant
altar, Rabbi,
you rise, taken,
innocent,
like a border child.
I am chasing
you and dawn.
Not on waves
but in anxiety’s
throes with doubt
staining my tongue.
This appears in the September/October 2019 issue of Sojourners
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