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he who has ears

it was a weird night

the wind moaning

in the branches of trees

silhouetted by

a scant-full moon

passover night

when the blood ran

and the wine flowed

when the angel of death

had turned his face

away and we

were saved

memorial supper

eaten, torch in hand

we marched

to the garden,

well-earned rest

disrupted to

arrest fishtown’s

carpenter prophet

we came upon him

speaking to his

fishermen, his

tax-traitors, and

the snake-eyed

slinking man who

led us gave him

a kiss

the torches streaming

in the wind

reflected off bronze

and iron and grim

faces shining with

sweat or tears

‘lord, shall we strike?’

one asked, whirling

his blade through

the tensing air

i heard its whistle

by my ear …

then fire ripped

through me

and blood ran

hungrily down

as i unbelieving

saw my ear pale

in the darkened grass

‘no more of this!’

the carpenter —

prophet —

warned

then he stepped

toward me

quiet, stooped,

rose, touched

my face all sticky

wet with blood

and made me

whole again

they marched

him away after

and his fishermen

friends fled

my legs buckled

beneath me

and i sat alone

unconscious of time

remembering

the love when

his eyes looked

into mine

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