On the tree is a fruit
that hangs,
sweeter and more beautiful,
ripened by the sun
yet evergreen, its juices
run across the bruised and torn flesh,
watering the dry earth beneath the trunk,
placed in its post by those of ill-means.
The pierced flesh is wet,
A body we consume to sustain us from the altar.
Here we grow wrapped around our trunks,
outstretched, as we are pinioned similarly.
Hands bleeding, waterfalls from our wound
pour out like his.
Rachael Varca is a pre-licensed therapist and writer of more than fifteen years experience. She writes at The Practical Therapist and Inking Out Loud, a collection of essays, poems, and home of the serialized novel, Heart of Stone.