Every Broken Thing

Waterboard Jesus
The Poetry Of Lance McKnight
Waterboard Jesus


Placing washcloth over face, he touches
the orbital indentations like Thomas
probing the wounds. Could you
immerse this man until it is finished?
Given, as you are, no spear, blade or implement
to hasten his departure? Knowing this water
no longer sanctifies or cleans. The constant drip
in the shadows recalls your intent in the dark –
keeping him blind while inside he bursts.

This time you hold him under, as if salvation
will never come. Seven times worse than you were
before, you pour water with little imagination
while, at your feet, this one gasps, wondering
who Jesus would do next. And a Savior
stands on the wrong side of an interrogation
mirror, reflecting on a God now suddenly absent.

Recalling a time once doubled over, as rivulets
of blood oozed from pore, dropped silently
down to dust, refusing a lie we no longer
can endure. A testament more gnostic than grace.