(after caravaggio’s doubting thomas)

jesus, if i had your hair, i’d lasso helicopters.
i’d bring them to a standstill and lift up my head through the blades.

i’d bash my head into control towers and laugh at all the pilots who bet my scalp.
for me gravity would turn off its meter and wait, i’d make sure of it.

if i was you, jesus, i’d yell for days. i’d pull the pin
from my mouth and blow up waterfalls
just to hear the glass it breaks. i’d shred canals.
i’d blow holes into eardrums.

if i could glow like that, jesus, i’d flame.

i’d show up in parking lots with moons in my mouth.
stuff eels into my eyelids. i’d roll my own image

like a spliff. jesus, if i was black and you were the dealer,
i wouldn’t believe you. you’d have three cards in a monte.

and i would never pick. i’d stand off to one side
and laugh at all the lip-licking believers trying to move their eyes fast enough.

—from “another finger for the wound,” by francine j. harris

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