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

Worry

yes

Anxiety

Sorrow

Regret

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