The Morning After the Mob Stormed the Capitol, I Climb Into a Stained-Glass Window

I clamber up the brick wall.
Fingers sink into the cracks of caulk
until my hands reach leaded frames of glass.
Stretching myself across the puzzle pieces
of bright green grass, the folds of the blood-red
cloak, and over the glowing robe,
I reach the lap of Jesus.
He sits still below an olive tree.
His right hand forever raised in blessing
over the fragile children frozen
in glass and time and place.
I pull myself onto his lap,
curl up as glass melts into flesh,
lead pulses with blood,
and the cold flat surface warms and swells.
Static arms begin to move then circle to enfold me.
He bends his head, his face toward mine.
I lay my cheek against his chest.
The music of his breathing
mingles softly with my own.
I rest
in the beating of his heart.