II
CROWN

Like the path of the golden road
to Santiago in the nighttime sky
—a dusting of stars—a radiant crown
of thorns covers your forehead
with light. Our sins are the thorns
casting a halo of light around the jet black
shadow of your head. Our sins create
sparks of sunlight on the temples
of the Word, the womb of our souls,
flesh that hears, sees, touches and feels.
The Glory of the Lord shines           Luke 2:9.
into our souls from the radiant circle
of your diadem, the only ornament
that adorns you, and though we are daunted,
we are enlightened by it. You are covered by
the random furrows of the heavenly plowshare
of your piercing crown; the thorns
wound you gently, and in return
you made them immortal in the eyes
of the faithful, for whom they sparkle
with the springtime of eternal youth,
like the memory of grandfathers filled with
the fervent desire for future grandchildren.
From the fruit of the tree of knowledge
of good and evil that will someday make us gods,
the red juice seeps out between the thorns.
Oh, blessed guilt, the essential knowledge
—knowledge that leads to self reproach—
the source of redemption; fertile guilt,
you made the Word flesh, that is, consciousness:
flesh that touches and feels, that listens and sees!