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
