Jesus and the ashes

Jesus found me dead.
A half told story,
face down in a filthy carpet.
A bottle of Gordons in one hand,
a rusty nail through the other.
The scent of my left foot,
now coals in the wood stove,
stung his eyes.
My ashes hung like stars on
strings in the air.

Stretching open my
wounds with his fingers,
he began to weep.
He found them familiar.
Instantly he knew what I'd become.
He was not pleased.

The last time we spoke
he said he would come;
but didn't say when.
I could wait no longer.

Thinking me impatient,
but forgiving me,
he cleaned the ashes from
between his toes,
closed the door,
and left with my gin.

Michael Lorne Leard
(Published in Carousel Magazine)