Christ the Vine

Bursting from black dirt, the stalk claws
at the icon’s gilded air
with knuckled tendrils. Convention’s leaves
unfolded everywhere

the eye can read preserve the heads
of caught apostles, blessed
and blessing Christ as he erupts
between two limbs. The best

of every bishop is retained:
the book, the quill, the halo,
the martyr’s palm, the ragged edge
he wept to die on, but gone

all below the waist, transfigured
in the vine’s serifs. But Peter
looks down. He sees himself pruned back
by God’s eternal shears,

feels his blood diffused beneath
the bark of each other
branch, grown sap-thick and awake,
and his doubt breaks into flower.