God stands near not touching our bodies, watches from behind a flimsy screen. If he could touch us, he would.
If he could bring us blackberries smothered in crème, spoon-feed our waiting mouths, his innumerable sorrows might end.
This second Thursday in February, he is dressed like a poor man, the hems of his jeans stained brown. When he closes his eyes, his children forget his name.
