So much like his name, Simon listens
more than carries.
Jesus, with his hands open-palmed, pointed
to the ground, shows each worn patch of skin.
Simon points a single index finger to the sky,
proving lift,
exhibiting the fulcrum,
this single moment of rest
on which the lever turns and moves
some body, any body.
This is where I will go:
up
when I learn to lift off one knee;
how to grip the smooth and scale
these marble columns.
Sister Theresa pulls my hands from the statue,
presses them together in prayer, fingers locked
and kept from the curved lids of Simon’s unpupiled eyes.
Here is the church; here is the steeple.
We show this architecture
back and forth, how inside us
there are multitudes
but don’t dare uncoil our fingers.
Simon’s hands are the only not tied together by ropes;
not carrying switch or sword.
And so he opens them to whatever might fall
to the splintered and the split he sees with perfect clarity
despite his smooth eyes;
these two dark clouds I couldn’t help but touch.
It’s always a son who falls, or is about to fall.
Take this burden from me; each of them says.
Take this heavy wooden rain.
“He chooses this.” Sister Theresa says.
“They ask and he answers.”
Such perfect reasoning
in the soft hum of a drawn sword.
Take this, the metal sings. It belongs to one man no longer.
–Matthew MiniCucci,
Reliquary, Accents Publishing
More from Matthew Minicucci:
Matthew Minicucci is a graduate of the MFA program at the University of Illinois in Urbana, Champaign. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming from numerous journals, including: The Gettysburg Review, The Southern Review, The Literary Review, Mid-American Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Cream City Review, and Crazyhorse, among others. He has also been featured on Verse Daily. He currently teaches writing at Millikin University in Decatur, Illinois.
