Not Jesus on the cross but Jesus the boy by himself, shivering, gazing into the water, his hand cupping his scrotum, the puzzling extra organ attached outside his body. I could believe in this Jesus. Just saying his name gives me pleasure, a word as soft and adjustable as genitals in the palm, a breath let out slowly. I like to imagine Jesus standing by the river as if he’d never seen so much water moving headlong in one direction. All his weight is on his back foot. Any moment he’ll lift his arms, step out onto the water.