Gethsemane

I want to tell the story. But—
there is no approaching this, 
strange crux 
of everything.

Come at it sideways. 
Come at it from the edge.

Picture, then, 
a hardscrabble patch of land. 
Rocks. An olive tree. Sparse, 
straggling desert grass. The rocks

have been waiting. The wind 
has been waiting. The living souls nearby 
sleep through the whole thing. 
(This is important. I have slept 
through many things.)

And then— 
What

can be known? There has never been 
any moment more private 
nor more public.

So. 
What I know: the screaming windy cliff 
of unavoidable onus, the weight 
of what must be done. 
For me, it was the abyss 
of being about to give birth. The way 
the self shrinks 
to a pinpoint in a vacuum, the way 
one becomes lost, faceless,

the way 
the thought that there is another soul depending on you 
can pull you inside out and through 
to a new place.

But of course 
even in that, my most impossible moment, 
he was already there, 
having been there before me.

Oh, how is a human 
to comprehend godly heartbreak? 
Might as well teach a point on a line 
about temples and spires, 
about stars. It’s a matter of dimension: 
impossible geometry.

What we know: 
he went to a place. 
He knew that ahead of him 
was a pain yet unknown in the world, 
extra-dimensional. That 
seeing it, he, who had maybe 
never known fear before this, asked to be excused, 
but not really.

We know: 
the contemplation of that pain 
was so terrible it required the ministration 
of an angel before it could be approached.

We know: 
at point zero 
he was left alone 
in a way no human can comprehend.

We know: 
he came out on the other side 
gentle, generous, 
quieter.

Forever after, he would say very little about it. 
Only: shrink. 
Only: nevertheless.