by
David Kushner
Very soon now
the light shall die.
The Great World
will be rentó
ashes, sobbing
seraphim, calves
born with
crabbed feet. Rain
then the
absence of rain.
Wild thunder
pounds in my head.
And where is
the betrayer tonight?
Drunk and
puking.
Sprawled across
the cold stones
in some rich
manís courtyard.
Even Simon
Peter has fled, while we
who have held
the hands of lepers,
the women no
one dares call disciples, remain
to watch
midnight eat up the earth.
Originally
published in Sojourners, June 2000