The backlight is lit and flashing.
The phone is rattling in my hand.
But I wonder if I will answer?
I see him in a hole in my sock.
His peach-colored handiwork swirls
Peek out into a fabric-less world
Where my footprint is his fingerprint.
The words you have said—
I am the door
I am the living bread
I am the light of the world
I am the good shepherd
I am the resurrection
I am the true vine
I am the way
I am the truth
I am the life
I am Jesus
—can I believe that?
Why have you made such a fragile me?
I’m masquerading false humility.
What good is it?
If I got turned inside out
And saw the way I really am
What would I think of me then?
Not intestines, entrails and organs.
But abstractions and presumptions.
I am dead while I breath.
This is fodder to feed my fears
And proof that problems
Never go away by ignoring them.
Hello? I say.
It’s me, he says.