For Conrad Alexandrowicz
That afternoon, in the crypt,
I saw them coming
over the rise, weapons
at the ready. Only for me,
I thought at first. Then turned
aware that He
was even more vulnerable.
Naked. Hanging. Nailed.
The only choice
to shield His body, knowing
the bullets might
lodge in me, or else
passing through would knit
us wound to wound.
Nothing for it,
then, but climbing up
to entwine Him,
as consort to
my Boddhisattva.
His erection in extremis
miraculous, a pledge of Life's
Longing for Itself.
He, turned outward
toward the death squad. I,
facing Him. Unable
to welcome them
with open arms except
by way of the embrace.
By welcoming Forgiveness
Itself deep
into my body.
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