Good Enough




Hammer a nail
into your hand
at the table.

Bend a rose stem again
and again
around your head.

Taste a thirst for justice
racked
on vinegar and rot gut.

A Friday good enough
to crack our grave opinion,
blackens at noon.

"This is My Body
broken for you" without
breaking a promise or a bone.

From the hanging tree,
the never dead again Son said
"This is your mother," to every boy born.

and "This is your son,"
to every lady in waiting
on the Lamp at her feet.

Hammer time played on a clay
pot; mud, spit in our eye,
see our way clear.

Blood pulsed into a chalice
from a torn skin
good

to the last drop,
this Friday
we thank God.