Caravaggio’s St. Thomas
This hurt has cut me
Like a jagged edge that catches me at the sleeve
And then breaks the skin.
I’m dabbing that gash
Again.
Give me a sign of softness.
Let me be someone who can point to a scar.
A strip of new flesh stretched over what was
Marred.
I’d do better with a closed wound.
I think of Thomas, I’ve always liked Thomas,
Who refused the resurrection
Until he had stuck his hand right into a gouged Jesus.
And Jesus; his hands, his side left open
For his friend to see.
Is that so— how can it be?
That blistered, bleeding,
Rankled flesh needing tending
Made resurrection more real to Thomas
Than a healed anything?
Hope Tabor is a Nashville-based artist and writer who grew up in a home with a lot of sisters and even more bookshelves. Most of her work is influenced by stories she’s read, lived, or heard around the wood stove at a family reunion. She hopes to devote her life to reading memoirs, making friends with strangers, listening to folk music, extracting meaning from experiences, “seeing every common bush afire with God” and writing it down.
Amethyst Review 