disciple

The Disciple Whom Jesus Loved

We camped the river for weeks, catching catfish

in the shallows, stretching prayer

rugs out over the red clay after breakfast,

but it wasn’t till we canoed up to Lake Whitney

that you came to us, stepped through the maze

of whitecaps, sun harrowing your shoulders—

Just the sight of you, too much for me

to hold in. I doubled over, slapped my palms

stupidly in the sand as I heaved,

and you patted my shoulder with your shiny

hand, trying not to make a scene. Lord,

I was a mess that morning you appeared,

but really it was all the time back then: I’d bring

a lukewarm beer into the shower or whisper

like a damned fool to myself when passing

a street corner where we used to hand out pamphlets.

Once, I saw you bagging okra in the market

and shoved my way to you. You turned around

and were someone else, some sad man confused

by the unvarnished love that fell from my face.