The Needle and the Nail

I remember you as a wound—
a sharp stab
of pain—a clean cut (the devil in me falls away)
of joy—a hot touch (the angel in me jumps into sky)
your bluest eyes trained on the soul
you knelt before me
grasped my hands—

“What are you trying to do,
break my heart?”
I said the words
and I could not unsay them
you did not deny them
but you did not stay
and neither did I

(he had turned his emotions off one day
he said
the tears all sealed up
and not one had seen them since—
till now)

years later we sit
smile
amazed that both the
joy and pain could survive
so many ordinary days

in the cathedral we wandered
past granite faces of saints
they were no stronger
no holier
than the invisible thread
that drew us
gathered us out of wood
and people and stone
for some special design

the needle is as strong as the nail—
the hand that sews
as strong as the one
that was pierced