Saturday, April 19, 2014

waiting for the end | a poem before Easter

If they wait for anything
It is a pounding at the door
when the authorities come

There is no expectant hypervigilance here
No anticipation
No eagerness
No hope


They are no longer thirteen
The strongest fled
The cleverest melted into the night
The best
is dead and buried now
They are ten

There is no way this ends well
They are not waiting for good news
They have no way of knowing
No grounds for conceiving
No frame for seeing
how this day will be called
Holy Saturday

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