ICHTHYS

Because of the plaques,
I wouldn’t wear black.
It shouldn’t prevent us, brothers.
Keep checking the mirror
And brush off your shoulders.
Rely on the blindness of others.

“Dieu veut, Dieu veut,”
but what does God want?
We ponder the IX of the ichthys:
The sign of the fish
and the wheel of bread—*
The feel of the psora invictus.

I took an injection,
Provided protection,
Delivered the comfort I needed.
Erasing the marks,
I returned to the dark
to tend to the sorrows I seeded.

Dieu m’a dit:
Sois pêcheur,
So n’ayez pas peur.
You were born as a fish, but no more.**
I am building a man
With the skill of my hand,
Delivering that which I swore.
Stop breathing in water—
You’re ready for drinking.
Start moving your arms;
You’re steadily sinking.
The ocean is large;
The fishes are schooling—
Keep watch on the lines I’m unspooling.

Because of the itch,
The fisherman’s rich.
We gather his netfuls of brothers.
As some would suggest,
At Jesus’ behest,
We float on his prayers, and others.

*Revisiting the Ichthys: A Suggestion Concerning the Origins of Christological Fish Symbolism by Tuomas Rasimus

**Brady Traywick, Calling Others