the marks across my wrists are

not miraculous

long sleeves help hide them

I never show them

who’d want to see them?

neither caressed nor kissed

notched with scars

my skin speaks

 tells what a red Victorinox

can do with time

how like a cross is a pocketknife!

though assured the Lord knows

my pain, I’m doubtful

Like Thomas

I need to touch the holes

of the risen Christ

feel where nail crushed bone

water and blood

pumped through punctures

I’ll believe it when I finger His wounds

then I want Him to feel mine