by Victor Ohikhemota

there’s a piece of clothing 
on my altar. i call it faith but 
You sniff at it 
& You call it righteousness. 

You whisper — ‘come to Me, 
all you who labor & are heavy laden...’

...& i find rest 
as you fling it across Your shoulders; this heavy scarlet fabric &
as You walk to the cross & 
hang Yourself like a dutiful Servant.

why does the cloud 
not hold its rain from me, 
unrighteous as i am? the devil 
calls me an incense offered to several idols; 
a Sodom, deserving fire & 
hail & brimstone.
but You name me beloved & quench my parched soul with mercy; 
which is to say that Your death is my justification. i shred my heart 
into bits of guilt. look how gravity pulls me into Your holy hands. 
look how love exists where death should be.

You whisper. again. 
‘I’m leaving you well & whole. that’s my parting gift to you. peace.’

& so, i swallow you,
for no one swallows God &
not swim out of the harshness of the world. like a blind butterfly, 
i cling to your bruised head. hold out Your hand & let us dance in my secret place. 
i am Your friend 
& Your crucifixion is an orchid 
planted in my soul. unravel me. i am a mystery of how Divinity baptises a boy. 
teach my body that it can hold love & not melt into a river of condemnation.
Amen.

Victor Ohikhemota is a fifteen-year-old poet and short story writer. Victor loves to read the Bible as it is the most undiluted piece of instructional literature. Besides reading and writing, Victor loves to sit at his window and watch clouds drift off.