The wounded heart cannot be
healed. Nailed through, it becomes
an icon others worship, kneeling in
awe at the quivering, the heart’s
blood, the real nails. Who keeps
driving the nails? Behind all the
adoration, aren’t we afraid that
one night our hands will forget
the smooth forgiveness of water
and reach for the hammer? One night
the blows will fall on you, on me,
on everyone. The heart will die.
Sometimes reaching for
a hand is like fingering
the stigmata of a dead god.
You hurt. You hope. You hurt.
Published in Harvard Review