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Ananias of Damascus

Saul, you thug who once dragged
believers through the streets,

flinging them from their beds so hard
their arms popped from their sockets,

how like a dying child you look,
your stomach caved in from fasting,

lips blistered with fevered prayer.
You reach into the darkness, trembling

from the exhaustion of reliving
the scene: The light shot out of the sky—

no, it flared from the stones—no,
Jesus, your hair was on fire—

God spoke to me, too, which is why
I stand at your bedside now and