One-eyed Jesus of the Sacred Heart

I bought him at a flea market, near the end
of the day, when everything in the stall
was a dollar. He stood on a table next to
snow globes and dog tags, ceramic mugs
from Paris, France and Gatlinburg.

His right eye and cheek chipped off,
the red of his robe rubbed mostly to white.
What long little roads have you traveled,
poor Jesus? What closets and cardboard boxes
have you consecrated with your presence?

He’s missing his right hand too, the one
that used to point toward heaven;
the hand that remains points to his chest,
to the flaming heart that burns so hot
his bones couldn’t contain it.