Caribou Jesus

by LINDA RYYNÄNEN

My grandfather raises me Christian, Jesus
weeping on the cross. Crucified, hands tied
and numb. Jesus of Nazareth, King of Jews.
When I see him naked in front of the pews,
I cry out. My knees are worn from kneeling.
My palms raw and cold.

Anaktuvuk Pass, Alaska. In the Chapel
of the Mountains, he sits atop a caribou.
It is the only painting I have ever seen.

When we pray, we pray to the bloodied thing:
caribou hearts, ripped out and worn ragged

‘round the throat. I am one with the cross,
I am nailed to the snow. It is ice; it has

tens of thousands

of names.