Absolved
He swabs at my skin and dabs with water, trying to avoid lacerations too directly; like I am something worth saving like my pain is something to be avoided at all costs. I curl up on my side, sobbing, skin throbbing and know that I am not deserving of grace of forgiveness that I have crucified my Jesus and he has come back with pierced palms willing to dress my superficial cuts. There is not enough communion wine to clean his blood off of the furniture not enough bread to feed the both of us and yet he is giving me his share. Jesus holds me and I am crying and I tell him that for three days and nights I was waiting for the tomb to be explored and aired, that I have come back with oils to anoint his body, and my Christ looks at me with red rimmed blue eyes, kisses my forehead and tells me I am not forgiven.


















