So long they almost touch
the ground, his awful legs
grow longer. He’s greener than
the tree, his flesh the gray-green
of clouds whipped before
an evening storm, the sunlight
driven through them as if
it could hold them. He seems
all legs. The feet disappear,
insinuating themselves
in earth. You cannot tell
if they are roots or claws
or where the torso branches
out, in arms and legs.
But where it bends as a neck
might bend, the long curve
says compassion as clearly
as the fountained branches of
a willow say weeping. And
when he dies, he twists, like a wound,
around the tree he almost is.
But the green body won’t
stay gone. It spreads from scars.
It flourishes until, in April,
he blooms like dogwood on
the crippled dogwood tree.
Then he is whole, writhing
on his love. He redeems just
his own body, returning
again, again, not having
to say kill me when he dies
or take me when he returns.
The Green Christ
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