The John Edward Johnson Prize
Jesus bleeds through
a potato chip, ridges raising the question
of a beard so that even the blind
see with a kind of ruffled Braille.
He appears again in a stain
of hair in the bathroom sink
the family sets off-limits.
Miles away, He spans the soft wings
of a moth landed and clinging to their jeep top.
It is an answer to the couple’s prayers—
a chance to sell Jesus on eBay,
gain funds for a new church building.
And Christ’s face should be quite an item.
The week before, He materialized in the fur
of a Texas neighborhood’s stray cat.
Each tract house now beckons
with a bowl of milk on the porch.
Every night after dark, His body
is in the knot of a tree trunk in Indiana.
The street light casts shadows and lends
form to Jesus’ knees and feet.
Even this ultrasound overlays the expected
beard and wide eyes on the tiniest of miracles.
In the future, windshield wipers may reveal
to some lucky soul
on some sacred part of the earth
His features made of streaks of rain.