(previously published in miniskirt magazine)
never meant to show signs at a wedding
always meant to save until later
but oh how it made his mother smile
when the clear water overflowed into rich red wine
when there was abundance, a renewal of flowing fountains.
it was there that celebration came to be
it was there, between beloved creations
be-loving each other
that he saw such love up close in real time
he was there, drinking his fill,
miracles no longer waiting.
retreats from the crowds,
holds fast to faith in solitude
refills his cup before greeting the fishermen
takes a shaky breath at the speed the crowds
find him, hail him, press up against him
how fast they will befriend,
and then how fast they will go
how fast the romance calls, love of the way things are
how fast he holds them, regards them,
dear people, how quickly it all goes—
oh to stop the rivers of time, the drink from emptying
to command stillness from the tempest,
and sleep in this boat, gently rocking.
walks the straightforward path to the well,
sees the beautiful Samaritan woman
he knew before she was woman born.
how she stares with startled, skeptical eyes,
how she puzzles over his proximity.
how their voices soon exchange into
bridges and gateways and the natural
reaches of light, heavenly organic light.
through her, he confirms,
humans indeed have hope.
through her, he finds himself.
later, they gawk as if he’d forgotten the rules
of their journeying.
I have food you know nothing about,
he says, not missing a beat. He never forgot the rules.
They forgot the goodness.
Aromantic Jesus wonders—
not regrets, but wonders—
if he had chosen to come formed into flesh
that would respond, into a body that felt
the pull of the tide into sparking favorites—
would he have more time, then?
Could he linger, cling to the earth longer
with all the trivial hormonal distractions
loving one and then another, unfocused on the world?
But he so loved the world, and he so loved his kin
that here in the fields under the stars,
while foxes have their dens and birds their nest,
he had nothing but his eternal love nothing
but his soul and the world
and a cup not taken from him.
looked at them and loved them—
the late night whispering against
midnight chill with questions of old,
the earth-smudged souls
resting, alive, in flowering fields, their created splendor
the men who dared drop their nets
to follow, the women who dared
against all question to touch him,
the wilderness, garden, and city as one.
He breaks the bread, sobering:
I have food you know nothing about
feeling the chill in his throat
This is my body, broken for you
he cannot himself heal—
This is my blood, spilled
anticipates the solitude—take it—
the piercing, tumultuous,
passionate starvation of —remember me—
Love to come.
This is my body.
He tries to ground this moment,
to nail it into the history of the world.
Ellen Huang (she/her) is an aroace queer christian. She writes fairy tales, spec fic, ace horror, and lowkey spiritual blog posts about how she sees God in the movies. She reads for Whale Road Review and has work published in miniskirt magazine, The Oikonomist, Lucent Dreaming, Resurrection Mag, Sword & Kettle Press, From the Farther Trees, Quail Bell Magazine, Amethyst Review, Diverging Magazine, Wrongdoing Magazine, and more. Follow if you wanna: worrydollsandfloatinglights.wordpress.com