The Love Poetry Of Judas Iscariot
In Galilee, fog bound and still, I saw you smile a breath before the first bird sang and though tone-deaf to the grace notes, I suspected some brief divinity amongst the rough clothes, rougher language and poisonous farts of our companions.
“Love”, you said, “is transformative, it makes new shapes of us all”.
“It grinds us to salt”, my terse reply.
On the road to Jerusalem we made new testaments, burned away our articles of faith, the novelty of it all coughed in to an oven heated air like magic the colour of dark, arterial blood,
but when I demanded absolute proof, you pointed to the wonder of a swallows’ coil-pot nest and with a flourish of your hand declared “Behold”!
It brought laughter from the others though not from me my skin too thin for that kind of fun.
On the night before the night I sold you to the wolves of respectability, in Gethsemane where sleeping olives dreamed of rain, I pressed my face to the loamy earth and beneath a moon too cold to touch, I believe I heard her mournful sigh; “nothing is new, nothing is new, I have seen it all before.”