Jesus sits in the smokiest section of every bar,
elbowing up to beer nuts with a proprietary nod
to both sides: an acknowledgement among men.

between sips He smiles quarters, turning their silence
into singing: jukeboxes skipping between the forces
of family and failure, fortune and fidelity. together

they raise a memorial over the dead soldiers,
whose empty lips loosed theirs, as new wine
in ancient skins. another round finds only His drink

at arm’s length: the other scarred wrist rests
on a shoulder, knowing love, like a scalpel,
like a whisper, can never cut from a distance.

First published in The Anglican Theological Review. (Winter, 2010)