a poem by my friend Caryn Davidson – previously published in Stone Magazine
Jesus Boy
I knew you loved Jesus.
On Sunday morning
you would rise early,
forgo the heat in our
bed, shower, shave electrically
and leave. I thought that meant
you loved truth, goodness, and
me, your lover.
I thought, through the dumb
simplicity of what your love
affair with Jesus might mean.
I believed, through the thin
elasticity of what our drive
for devotion
might express, turning aside
from the impulse to deride,
dismiss, dissimulate.
All my good intentions for you.
I knew you read the Bible
and upheld its urgent message.
You would cite slowly,
extol its trenchant wisdom.
But your lust would not be
tamed by its dark injunctions
and your taut appetite prevailed.
There is nothing different in this story:
You awoke, swung out of bed,
glanced in the mirror at your
sleek head of hair, the jadeite eyes,
quickly stroked your sac
and found the image pleasing.
You thought, Jesus loves me,
as I thought you loved me too.
Dismiss, dissimulate,
all my good intentions for you.
