Luke 15

Knuckling hosannahs
from the sockets of my eyes.
The back of my hand is wet
with illness, dry with winter.
Kicked off my blankets, uncovered,
the shivering rise and fall
of my chest confesses the chill,
the hardness of the blood beneath.
Take me under my trembling
arms, lift me onto your bent
shoulders. Let me join the rest,
where all is recovered.