En la crucifixión
It had not rained that morning. All was tinder dry,
ready for burning hearts on, and somehow
it made it worse that God had sent the sun to shine
(on a day like this!) so strong and bright,
when nothing, any more, was right.
He was our leader, our brother, our son,
pastor santo, muerto, done.
Perhaps he could not see our ache, our endless pain,
eclipsed as it was by the peerless passion of his own,
shot through the feet, the hands, the throne.
For a moment I even hated him,
the merry dance he’d led us on. So much
for the red carpet. Instead a river of blood,
and all my doubts are washed away by that water:
he’s as mortal as you or I. And then again he caught my eye,
as if to say one last goodbye, and left.
Finally, the sky gained eyelids,
by Katy Morgan