JESUS THE LOW RIDER - Quentin James Reynolds Poems


Poems » quentin (james) reynolds » jesus the low rider


take a little trip
take a little trip with me

I see him through the keyhole,
swaying below the porchlight and his halo of moths,
I smell the wine on his breath and I feel
weak in the knees: this is my blood.
I release the chain and fall into his arms,
again. his cheeks are comely with rows of
jewels, his neck with chains of gold.
he wears an iron cross, a confederate
bandanna and his chain whips clamour,
they sting my fingers when I undress him.
the soles of his motorcycle boots are
the cartography of his absences, each run,
each time he leaves I swear it is the last time.
as the door slams and I sweep the glass and
splinters, his temper is epic and desperate:
I love an outlaw

who talks about betrayal in his sleep,
his hands rake the sheets and I cleanse
them, with tears. in the morning
I hear the Apostles circling, their
high raked mufflers are stormclouds
that portend my loss, my loneliness.
Christ, I am desolate without him.
he bakes loaves of bread in high
spirits and I remove the oilcloth –
my shroud of Turin -- and polish the
bike. its suicide clutch and chrome rails
shine with water and vinegar, there
is a prophetic grammar in their
dagger design. I see the crash that
kills him, the rain soaked road,
his stillness. I see myself
in shadow, resurrecting him. I
have the gospel lettered on my
forearms, in gold and green.
I have learned to live with sorrow,
and I am a believer. Jesus kisses
me, hard on each cheek, before he
turns, and rides away.