A Poem For Sunday

"With Mercy For The Greedy," by Anne Sexton:

For my friend, Ruth, who urges me to make an appointment for the Sacrament of Confession

Concerning your letter in which you ask&n bsp;  

me to call a priest and in which you ask   

me to wear The Cross that you enclose;   

your own cross,

your dog-bitten cross,

no larger than a thumb,

small and wooden, no thorns, this rose—

I pray to its shadow,

that gray place

where it lies on your letter … deep, deep.

I detest my sins and I try to believe

in The Cross. I touch its tender hips, its dark jawed face,   

its solid neck, its brown sleep.

True. There is

a beautiful Jesus.

He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef.

How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in!

How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes!   

But I can’t. Need is not quite belief.

Continued here.

(Photo by Peyman Faghir Mirnezami)