When Paul spoke of his side pierced thrice

By the thorn that had found its home,

With whose pain did he wish to sympathize?

Mine? Or the Corinthians?

Or was it just his own?


For whom did he share his struggle?

For whom did he describe his fight?

Was it for anyone in particular,

Or something just to write?


Could he have imagined, eons past his time,

Me praying that in fact it was for my eyes,

Like a child,

Like a child before a prize?


But I want to know about this Paul fellow,

Did fuck, shit, damn, and hell

Cross his lips in his agony?

Did he know my pain, my curses, my tears,

My nights in the depths as well?


Because I have a thorn and I’m pretty torn

By the shortness of my prayer.

And I’ve prayed thrice and called out to Christ

And it’s all just a bunch of myrrh.


But shouldn’t that be the very point,

That what I’d rather kill with ice

Joins me not to Paul at all,

But to the One that I call the Christ.


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