by Justin Lacour

after St. John of the Cross

I’ll try not to complain or be afraid,
when Your fists punch through
flesh and muscle and bone
to find my heart,
to pull out the dark roots,
the ones that choke
silence, a silence
waiting to explode like birdsong,
like children’s voices booming
from the trees.
Your hands aren’t cruel,
just heavy, and
getting better is a type of dying.

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Justin Lacour lives in New Orleans and edits Trampoline: A Journal of Poetry.  His recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in America, Relief, Heart of Flesh, Fathom, and other journals.