Christ of the Ozarks

“In appreciation of a gift of any amount, you can light the Christ of the Ozarks for one night ‘In Honor of…’ or ‘In Memory of…’ a friend, loved one, or church.” 

—Great Passion Play, Eureka Springs, Arkansas

Who hooked a line through your heart

tugging every which way but home?

Who wilded the hickory grove,

greased the hasp of sky with pollen

and overturned golden buckets

of dusty leaves to soil the air?

Was it the sculpted Christ

beyond the mountaintop? The rigid

Christ of water, sand, and stone?

You were only ever

a handprint on glass. 

A postcard that never

turned up. There are things said 

and unsaid. Agreements 

like brushfires in fall—understated wisps

dotting the riverside. You wrote

I never said how long. You wrote

Death is a weathervane, God

a stiff breeze. Who can say

what one means to say, anyhow?

When Christ told you to touch 

where the wounds left nothing

to touch, he fashioned a smoke screen

out of doubt. Flesh

turned like a bad tooth—sponge

to stalagmite. When words failed

to deliver the captives, to calm

the water beneath the hull, to 

draw the bile from your gut

and wrench you back, where

else could you turn? Christ 

between the mountains 

with his wide, grouted arms?

This rough-shod Christ with sinews 

of iron like copperheads coiled

to reinforce his weathered skin?

Would he soften if you came? 

Would you want him, if he would?