if you had been writing this story
he would have looked like an angel
or a king or a god, would have blinded
the eyes of his enemies, would have
come in pomp and splendor,
not walked up to me and asked,
“ma’am, who are you looking for?”
like he didn’t know, like he couldn’t
read my tears like he knew my name.
i thought he was the groundskeeper,
the gravedigger, and i almost ignored him.
and then he spoke, and then i saw him,
the glorified gardener, the king of eden,
who had crushed the serpent’s head.
i ran back to the others, sowing
gospel seeds in my wake. he called my
name. he calls it still. and every time
i still can see his face.