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Each fall this town empties, leaving me drained, standing on the dock, waving bye—bye, the white handkerchief stuck in my throat.
You know the way Jesus rips open his shirt to show us his heart, all flaming & thorny, the way he points to it. I’m afraid the way I miss you will be this obvious.
I have a friend who everyone warns me is dangerous, he hides bloody images of Jesus around my house for me to find when I come home—Jesus behind the cupboard door, Jesus tucked into the mirror.
He wants to save me but we disagree from what. My version of hell is someone ripping open his shirt & saying, look what I did for you.
Nick Flynn