“And Saul arose from the earth; and when his eyes were
opened, he saw no man: but they led him by the hand and
brought him into Damascus.” – Acts 9:8, KJV
I see what you mean: the road to Damascus
is long & twirling like sand in sea breeze, rivulets
of oasis heat. But Damascus, your first sanctuary,
is a gassed out, excavated shell. Children lie
face first in footprints filled with water. Men
are ghosts dancing in raining ash & drywall.
You saw God in your cataracts & felt him
touch your blood-rushed cheeks. The last time
I saw God, I skinned my knees on red rocks
in Colorado. All around, valleys deferred
to boulders set loose by Big Thompson.
The river raged & the sky purpled, my breath
slowed & my knees bled, & then, then I saw—oh God—
She was black & bright, like a funeral pyre,
or a shadow at noon. She placed her palm
on my cheek; I felt her fingers trace my eyebrow.
Her hand was wind & blood pressure.
She smelled of cedar tree & freefall. Her eyes
were not in every place. They were fine print,
constructed & leveled. I did not go blind.
I thought of the Tabernacle, I thought of my sins.
Then, I thought of you.
You, who instructed me to fear my father
& pity my mother. You, who told me to scorn
my body & loathe my desires. You, who led me
to believe that no matter my deeds or my faith,
the kingdom will not be for me. Paul, you
were never a changed man. You never saw
God. Saul witnessed drowning children
& ghost men. He wept. After, when a trail
of windswept tears gathered bits of sand
like a tax collector, you opened your eyes.
All around, a world of flame & ash,
caked in the heat of a stalling sun. Still,
with your breath slow & your knees bleeding, you stood,
washed your face with spit & scrambled
like a blind man to the gates of Damascus.
