Alien Child

Beholding the baby, you could not see yourself

in him. He had his mother's flesh and form, but none

of you: a hybrid of your wife plus something else,

something indecipherable that struck you dumb.

And as he grew, his face grew more foreign to you:

inexplicable expressions, pure smiles, pure frowns,

eyes imbibing all things, as if visiting new

planets in each poor corner of his run-down town.

And as he grew, his faith grew more native in you:

you found comfort in his otherness, in this cross

between your woman and her lover—now in view

as your love too—and in his freedom from your flaws.

Master and Apprentice (Childhood of Christ by Gerard van Honthorst)

Outside the sphere of candlelight,

outside the scrape of saw on wood,

outside the workshop’s walls,

a black and silent night.

Outside his focus on his father’s hands,

outside the sanding and hammering,

outside the pauses of appraisal,

a sightless sleeping night.

Inside with spirit spectators,

inside their songs, hushed and awed,

inside the home where heaven watched,

a night when man taught God.

Dedicated to my mentors: Professor Neal Shipley and Bishop Arthur Kennedy