by Matt Escott

Mine were first in line, elbows out
Deaf to the shouts of those they ran by
The disciples’ skin under their nails
From failed attempts to stop them 
(I watched them try)
Their bodies still for just His briefest touch
Of their brows, my frantic hope 
That it was long enough for something
(I don’t know what)
Maybe only to worry my prayers
Wreathing their hearts like borrowed crowns.

Hearing my sigh He looked up
The fringe of his gown sprinkled with powdered sugar
Where my sons had laid their hands
(Become like a child)
Before breaking away to the water’s edge
Chasing gulls back into the sky.

That’s where you’ll find me
Squinting into a dagger sun stabbing sparks
Into a rolling sea, listening to
Crashing waves chanting hymns
Wearing thin my skipping heart
(Touchstone of doubt)
Sitting with my sons, building battlements with broken pails
Soaked sand mingling with the dirt already
Under my nails, their salt stained hair absently brushed
While I search their faces and find
Grace waiting for me there.

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Matt Escott lives in Toronto with his wife and 6-year-old twins. For the past 10 years, he has worked with youth experiencing homelessness, and is currently developing a mentorship program for youth in foster care. He has been published in Ekstasis, OneArt, Stone Poetry Quarterly, and Heart of Flesh.