Читать книгу St. Francis Poems - David Craig - Страница 8

How he began to overcome himself by his dealing with lepers.

Praying loudly, so that God would mark him

mark the degree of his need,

Francis wrapped each day in the fish paper,

soiled strings of his too-personal heart.

Coercing his distant mouth, he made himself kiss

what was left of the leper’s hand, fold it,

cracking, crackling over the scarred coins

he’d managed to lodge there.

And the diseased cloth of lip, hot rasp

of peace—returned, marked Francis’ face

with all that was rank and squirming inside.

He joined them, a leper before he became one:

these men marked with strength enough

to bear the inside of the cup;

he kissed what he could find, hold of every hand, face,

pressed each to the clear water of his cheeks.

In earnest repetition, he found what he needed:

the swollen face of God, in every moist, crusted curse,

in the drop of every eye.

And because he finally learned

to fully embrace that gift, he had to endure the next:

departure, toward those more obviously afflicted.