Poetry & Prose : We May Never Know

For Jesus The Christ


We may never know who decided to kill him
On that barren hill with the crushing name, Golgotha—
It howls in us, when we remember him—;
Or if, with the revelatory supper behind him, feet washed in turns,
And the enemy within poetically outed by his rapier reckoning,
He knew who awaited his coronation with purple irony;

(but we know there were dogs on the street corners,
whimpering and pre-mourning)

We may never know the colour of his imagination,
After parlaying with the ghosts of his celestial ancestry, 
Or whether they’d decreed his ignominy as oblation for our sins;

Even as he anticipated the cowardice of his army
In the face of his rendering unto the Caesar, though he knew
That the Pilate, a mere tweezer, was beneath him cosmically;

(but we know a dreadfully bright sun rose early, 
to watch him dreadfully)

We may never know his state of mind, delirious or ecstatic, 
As Pilate washed his trembling hands of his illicit lynching, 
Amidst the fear-addled heaving and baying of the hordes;

Or if he craved the demise of the sun and its staunch mirages,
As he shouldered his stave alone towards the blood-soaked hill, 
Where Anubis awaited him diffidently;

(but we know there was a cicada on every leaf, 
eavesdropping for the moon)

We may never know if he saw crows or doves in his mind’s eye
As he quizzed the eons, thorned and birched thin as he was,
Or if Gabriel whispered the prophesy in his ear;

While the red-eyed serpent peered from the back of his mind
Like a poacher’s lookout on a grand belittling manor, 
Braced up for the weight of the forgiving smile;

(but we know prostitutes and beggars stood askance, 
to avoid the undertow)

We may never know what he saw in the faces baying at him; 
be it a bovine aspect, or the wretched sweetness of innocents 
pressed into buying imperious love with self-hate;

Or if he even saw the space craft circling Golgotha, 
Awaiting his evacuation from flesh and anguish, 
Or if, indeed, anguish blinded him to that kingly privilege;

(but we know there were hawkers of food and stones, 
to test his adoration)

We may never know if he felt the spear pierce his heart, 
after seeking in vain the reprieve to alter the course of time, 
or if, indeed, it warmed his heart to the glory above;

Or if his mother’s lingering smile had freed his mind 
For his globe-turning apotheosis, and the will to embrace it 
With the baffling grace of God; 

But we know he wept for us.

Ishmael Annobil, 23/3/2020, 03:05, Regents Park, London

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