prompt: the disciple who loves Jesus arrives at the tomb of his beloved

boykeats:

if the light touches him,
it does so like this: gently.

if he touches the rock
that covers the cave mouth,
he does so like this: gently.

judas presses one damp cheek
to the warm limestone, & then
both of his blistered
rivermud-stained palms.

mere nights ago, a thousand
lifetimes ago, yeshua had held
those hands in his own,
under a moon-kissed fig tree
in gethsemane while the others
had slept unknowing.

you must do this, yeshua
whispered through trembling
lips, do this for me.

judas thinks of dark thorns,
iron nails, the soft flesh broken
open. he thinks of how he hid
himself in the faraway rushes so
he wouldn’t hear anything but
the water & his own heart roiling.

judas did this for him
but his soul still howls,
his mouth still aches.

they’ll call me betrayer. he stumbles
over the words of his prayer.
whether this is true or not,
i’ve still killed you. my laughing
poet king. my armored starlight.

my blood’s tainted with the sins
of skin, silver, destruction.
should it be that hell exists, find me
there & say i am forgiven.

silence. then suddenly
winds sing past him,
& in the distance a host
of dust-colored sparrows
tears into flight.