top of page
The soldier who thrust his spear
into Christ's side returns to barracks,
gnaws hardtack and wolfs a bowl
of fish and grain bare-handed. When
thunder breaks the back of Jerusalem,
he falls and scrapes his knees on
paving stones. Those days, you could
not be human and not recognize the voice
of God and drink that blackness in.
Next morning he wakes face down
in the street where harlots sell them-
selves piece by piece. History begins
here and travels everywhere unknown.
bottom of page