The gowns
of displeasured priests
cascade
shapelessly
in rows before
the peasant
poor, encircled now
to witness history
arrive at the indictment
of a perfect
man. The anticipation
is timeless,
of course—a fine
inheritance
for a fool.
Witnesses are
occasioned,
assessed. In
Christ’s thoughts,
Adam is
naming
the birds—his new wife
off unknowingly
carrying to
him this
last supper, peopled
by the clean
feet of unfaithful
friends.
It was offered
to us all.
And I (unlike
my mother) unfettered
the lie
much like a tomb
in which I too
pass victoriously
through the perfumed devotion
of prostitutes—
I among them,
casting my
vote and absconding into
the evening’s
brittle air, having
come worthily,
worthily
to that same court,
only now—
to decorate
the day’s dead
for their
faithfulness.
Taken from the 2017 edition of Artos, the literary journal of Bethlehem College & Seminary students. Art by S. Todd, BA ’20