The Gospel According to John
Time passed slowly that afternoon.
Blood flowed like lava into my cupped hand.
The man who hung upon a rough-hewn tree
should have reigned over lush gardens of creation.
The night before I’d struggled to remain awake,
but now I stood by the mother until he passed
into the boiler room of hell. We remained there
to receive his body, returned it to the earth,
sealed the tomb with the clunk of a massive boulder.
After the Sabbath, the Phoenix resurfaced from the ash-pit.
Now I write his story, dipping the nib of my pen
in the sanguine ink of eternal mysteries.
Copyright 2012 Victoria Slotto