Not Jesus on the cross
but Jesus the boy
by himself, shivering, gazing into the water,
his hand cupping his scrotum,
the puzzling extra organ
attached outside his body.
I could believe in this Jesus.
Just saying his name gives me pleasure,
a word as soft
and adjustable as genitals in the palm,
a breath let out slowly.
I like to imagine Jesus
standing by the river
as if he’d never seen so much water moving headlong
in one direction.
All his weight is on his back foot.
Any moment he’ll lift his arms,
step out onto the water.