From 2002- 2008, my morning commute was like clockwork, but no matter where I stood on the platform, even when I dared enter a different subway car than that which would arrive in front of my “usual” spot, a woman managed to enter the same subway car. As soon as the doors shut, she shouted and passionately read Bible passages to us from Fordham Rd. to West 4th Street. Approximately 45 minutes straight, only stopping for air or the occasional sip of water. Sometimes, I wonder where she is. I wonder where she went when she exited the turnstile at the West 4th Street station. This one’s for her, wherever she is.

 

 

“stand clear of the closing doors, please.”

 

 

**bee             boo**

 

                      thud.

her black coat glittered with gold verse

 

               as she rolled her wrist and slid her sleeve

 

to open a well-worn brown book with gold gilt edging 

                                             and

                 to recite what she’s read time and time again.

 

 

lady, we all heard you found Jesus, but

             

                          I’d like to know where you were

                                                      

                                                                             where He was

when He showed up

 

 

                                                    or

                                                                              how you found Him, exactly—

                                            

                                       was it by accident?

did He bump into you on Sixth Avenue?          

 

 

 

                                            did He burst through the bathroom door

 

 

 

in an old tenement building 

                                                                       

                                            without knocking, urgently tugging at His fly?

did you close your eyes and whisper a prayer?

                                         

                                            did you reveal stigmata wounds

 

 

in the arms of a man resembling Pilate– 

                                                                          turn your head at the sight of blood?

did you savor the slipping chance of tasting salvation?

                       

                                               I don’t think I found Jesus.

           I’m not sure I was ever supposed to look for Him.

 I’m not a good Catholic. 

God didn’t bless me with faith, 

                             if that’s how it even works. 

       

                                                                                  what little faith I may have had

        

                      must be bouncing along 

 

                                                    the slight wobble of the earth’s endless rotation.

       I may have left it in a coat closet I cleaned earlier this week

                            but I can’t be sure.

I don’t know that I ever found Jesus.

                                                             was He ever missing?

                                      I don’t see flyers with His face bending around the curves on 

 

the rusty 

        

                 staple-adorned 

                                              telephone poles lining Queens Boulevard.

I’ve passed the same poster for a missing cockapoo for about a year.

                                                     I’m tempted to call the number at the bottom of the

 

 

weathered poster to see if they found him,

                                                                                       but I never do.

I thought I saw him on the train once-– 

                                                               Jesus.

       He was wearing Ray-Bans and Birkenstocks.

                                                  

                                   I’m pretty sure he transferred to the L to Williamsburg;

                                                      I took the E to Forest Hills.

I thought

                                                       I saw him in the eyes 

             of the women                                                                                 selling fruit 

                                

                                                  on   the Major Deegan       

                            

                                                         

 

 

                                                           (northbound)

 

 

 

but I was too busy humming along to a soft rock tune that I’d rather not name

 

 

                                    because, I am too chicken shit to admit I like it. 

 

 

 

I thought I saw Him in the line of tail lights snaking around the bend

 

 

                                                   at the foot of the George Washington Bridge,

 

 

 

                             but it couldn’t be

 

 

 

because I forgot the words to “This Little Light of Mine”–

 

 

                              I whistled it instead,

            so if people pulled up next to me and heard the melody

 

 

I could tell myself I’m a better person than I really am.

 

 

 

you see, I’m not sure if Jesus needs finding;

 

 

He may actually be avoiding us,

 

 

dodging this idea of a second coming,

 

 

 

 

because attending once is all you really need to do

 

                                  

                                    to be remembered for trying to save others…

 

 

                                                          right?

after all the sacrifices are made,

 

 

people continue to

request.

 

plead.

 

beg.

 

cry.

 

 

hope.

 

wish.

 

demand–

 

                                                                    of Jesus 

 

                                         for what is 

                           

                                                                                or is not happening 

to them

for them

around them

even when they say it’s for someone else,

it never is,

 

 

really(.)

 

 

 

 

 

according to a Jesuit scholar whose scholarship specializes in Assyriology,

 “humans are incapable of true Agape…”

he explains:


“…even in wanting for others, there is a speck of wish that hope is fulfilled, the very nature of that desire to want, even for another, misses the mark of pure selflessness of which only God is capable…” 

 

                      

                         even if it’s only by a microscopic step along an invisible Planck.

 

 

                                                     damn.

 

 

 

                                    that’s harsh for an 8 am lecture.

 

 

 

 

thankfully,

 

we.                                            can.                                        try.                                                 again.

 

 

tomorrow.

 

maybe the rapture isn’t on its way;

maybe it’s already here

and we’re all waiting for it like fools stuck behind

 

 

“the train traffic ahead of us”

 

perhaps,

 

“we’ll be moving shortly”

 

too bad we’re stuck sitting

 

 

on the B train that never arrives on-time,

 

 

while others wax and wane in phases of faith

 

 

along the sweltering platform at Fordham Road,

 

 

 

 

 

and we’re all too late

                                                                                       because

 

 

 

 

 

Jesus already took the bus to Coney Island to catch the sunset,

 

 

to wave to the kids at Luna Park

 

 

 

who watch from the rides & dare him to walk on water.

 

 

They chant,

 

“Do it! —

 

 

Do it! —

 

 

Do it!”–

I hope He disappears without uttering a single word to anyone,

 

 

even if he only leaves for a 3-day getaway.

 

 

an underpaid security guard will find His hoodie at the top of the Rock,

 

the makeshift, modern-day shroud claiming He’s somebody’s ‘homeboy’—

 

a tacky fad from a sportive pre-9/11 past.

 

 

upon His return

 

                                                from the lost and found box

 

 

where some still confess (weekly)

 

 

 

 

 

others will bear false witness

 

           

 

 

                                                   and tell the children it’s a miracle.