Today's poem is by Frank Paino

Judas: Triptych
       

1.

Rabboni, I did not fail
to notice the way your hair shone
with the gloss of that harlot's fawning,
your brow and calloused feet gone slick
with oil and kisses, her robes blue
as summer against the slender throat
of alabaster from which she poured
the spikenard, its musk ghosted
with a rumor of something long hidden
among a crown of roots and relics.
What wouldn't I have done to take her
place beside the tattered leather
of your sandals?

2.

Remember. I did only what you said
was ordained before the first blades
of starlight were fashioned to shatter
unbroken space. Tonight, I turned
from your talk of bread and wine, fled
beneath a sickle of moon bright
as a purse of silver, slouched
where Gethsemane's trees trembled
in hot breeze, until your slender silhouette
fell across the footpath. I swear,
all the world caught its breath. Held it.
Then the taste of your mouth—
hyssop, olives, bitter hint of sow thistle.

3.

Confess it. Without me, you would have
lingered those lightless hours in the garden,
fear-fevered, damp with sweat and blood,
but unmolested. I did only what was dreamed
into your story. Even so, I grant, again,
my fiat. Let me be the scapegoat,
cast out and cursed down the ages.
Let my ruin be delivered
through burn of rope or bowels spilled
across a patch of midnight field,
only do not turn your face from me,
My Lord. You, who are the only kingdom
into which I ever longed to enter.

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Copyright © 2024 Frank Paino All rights reserved
from Best Spiritual Literature: Vol. 8, 2023
Orison Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission