I am staring at Jesus but I do not meet His eyes

They are hooded in shadow

downcast at bloody feet

as if to beckon me

to pass the velvet threshold

and meet his dark gaze

Your fingertips

My mortal tether

Graze my palm

Recoiling against religious trauma

but He demands my gaze

whether through heavenly edict

or anchoritic devotion

the bounds of the world

warp around his head

canon unfurled across peeling clouds

shattering the cosmos with love

Our existence here

is living apocrypha

Why is Jesus not within me

But 30 foot out of reach

mediated by content and form

made hallowed by art curators

As a Jew this is the closest I’ll ever come to Him

So I will stay in thrall

green martyr by the footrest

palimpsest to a museum notary

seeing how errant light

rebirths the Master