Each Palm Sunday I tie a frond into a cross.
It stiffens, pales, dries into dross,
fading like my resolve to remember your life,
your loss of love, your sacrifice.
Among the horde of believers waving their palms,
I inhale joy and exhale psalms.
I do not dare to come to your bloody spiked feet,
your rales, your cries. Our eyes might meet:
in that holy reflection I would know my soul,
poor, weak, inflated -- black as coal.
Forgive me my convenient faith, Lord.
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