Wrist Deep

Jesus Moved to Jersey

The part they don’t tell you in Sunday school
is that after the resurrection, the ascension,
Jesus left heaven and moved to Jersey
where he still lives now, a little more pudgy,
(the signature Jesus Christ abs long gone)
where he owns a little baker shop, making bread
hour after hour, every mouthful so warm, so good
that for a moment you believe that God is real.

You would not recognize him, his beard grayed,
his long silken hair a bit receding, somewhat thinner;
the light Jersey accent he’s taken on like a cross;
not to mention the attitude he’s picked up, a force
behind the voice, like a regular sinner.
But then he’s never cared much for authority,
which is the other part they don’t let you see
but hint at with his lonesome moments of dismay.

Prayers weaved out of doubt in gardens for hours,
the part where Jesus wept. The famous short line.
But these days he’s quite the exhibitionist, every thought
scribbled down in journals, each emotion wrought
into red words blazoned on pages like bloodstains;
Or even more telling, his letters to dad, the Why don’t you see
that you cannot just die vicariously through me?
each note arriving, bread scented, dusted lightly with flour.