The one who flinches feels it most,
and yet he plunges doubter’s hand’s
fresh piercing sword in wounded side.
“Don’t touch me, Mary!” But to Thomas:
“Reach out your hand.”
And so we’re caught
between the woman’s yearning clutch
and so-called doubter’s probing finger.
But yet for both, denied and glued,
the touch or lack confirms the thing.
The mess and gore and gardener’s flit
are incarnation’s curse and blessing –
the truth that only here can we
begin to see beyond confession’s
controlling orthodoxy’s grip.
The separation’s false, beguiles.
The thought, once caught, betrays, defiles.
For now the flickering screen allures
and touch, it’s felt, can here be real.
The glass, once darkly apprehended,
exposes all for what it is –
the stark rebuke of hubris-snare,
the there-ness of what isn’t there.
We’re left with nothing –
but to flinch.