Briton Riviere: Christ In the Wilderness

After I thought a while it seemed clear it wasn’t the yap, yap, buzz, ring, chat that drove him away from the city. Nor the police alarm yaw-yahing saying danger or someone hurts. It was the hands. Hands reaching to touch his face, his hands, head. Hand to rub his belly or grip his shoulder. Hands coming from above, or below, little squirts tugging at his clothes. Once away into the hidden places where no one lives the animals peeked so further he went, seeking grit to rub against, hard stone for bed, the cold of stars above in the night. A place where lizards basked from afar-- other survivors looking for a drink of water, a drink of alone to coil within breast, for weariness to weight the legs heart pumping alone, be still, find grace with the end of the tolling bells. Where self is a light to breathe upon let flare into true soul, the space where heart flares out like a beacon for all to hold and when you’re ablaze there’s none to say they are you they. Just peace. Belief. Tomorrow rising with a hunger that goes beyond feed goes beyond trust, goes beyond life to a beauty amazed to find where once having found blaze it never goes out ready to hand out and hand out.