Triple Jesus revised
On a side street in Panajachel
I spend a few quetzales
for a brown beaded necklace
with a screw clasp, a two-faced medallion
trinketed around my neck,
acquired for surrender;
mine only until it's not.
The world is full of squirming babies.
Some grow old, others
don't last very long.
I was nine when my baby sister
was born, the one now looking
at the necklace with wanting eyes.
In a blink, it's off and in her hands.
She studies the medallion's face and asks,
Is this big Jesus and little Jesus?
An honest question, but absurd.
There is only one Jesus,
not two at the same time, I say.
But turn it over and there is another Jesus,
The one on the cross, that's so sad
my sister says, fingering the beads.
A precious thing, our Triple Jesus, and funny too.
Not the answer we hoped for,
but the only one at hand tonight,
the eve of Mother's Day, our two sons
gone to where Jesus dwells,
and here, two of us
and three of Him.
Triple Jesus
On the street in Panajachel
for a few quetzales
a brown, beaded chain
with screw clasp, sainted medallion,
trinketed around my neck,
hanging loose to hand over
to the first one who asks.
The world is full of squirming babies.
Some grow up, others
don't last very long.
I was nine when my baby sister
was born, the one now looking
at the necklace with wanting eyes.
In a blink, it's off and in her hands.
She studies the medallion and asks,
Is this big Jesus and little Jesus?
An honest question, but absurd.
There is only one Jesus,
not two at the same time.
But turn it over and there is another Jesus,
The one on the cross, that's so sad
my sister says, fingering the beads.
We laugh and laugh. Triple Jesus.
It's not the answer we hoped for,
but it's the only one we have tonight,
on the eve of Mother's Day, two sons
gone to where Jesus dwells,
and here, the two of us
and three of Him.
