Christ went to a certain place

to pray,

says Luke, who wasn’t there

when the Lord’s prayer

spoke itself in shivers

of intention.

 

I read it this way: that Christ was certain,

possessing a calm knowledge

that bread would be

delivered daily, and broken,

and that names would be held holy

on the tongue,

spoken only at moments of

passion and passage.

 

How certain, I wonder, did the

cross feel, rough cut, slivered

and notched as he humped it

to a certain place

that held no secret, only

humiliation and public hanging,

shouting his abandonment

to the lowland traffic?

 

In his doubt I find

my certainty.

I sense, finally,

a biography.

 

by Paul Totah