Loving Judas



Legs dangle, arms crossed, nestled in the humming lilacs,

oblivious to all but the playful patter of unicorn hooves –

a wax doll flays a panda and steals a school bus

like the lips of Judas kissing his friend.


There is a flower, stamen intact, but anemic to incursion of lesser bees,

boasting contempt for unadorned suitors, never met.

Sweetest honey, end game of lovers and shared hives,

cannot match the preferred taste of a bloodless friend.


Pen at the ready, the steady scratch of solitary ink,

the price of life pretended, unlived living gets written instead.

Freedom, pillaged by cool tranquility, sits aloof on a park bench,

munching contentedly the bones of a dead friend.


Drifting, like the Lady of the Lake on a

fairy tale palm frond, someone catches a reflection –

a presence, vaguely recognizable, still unflinching,

puckers again the brutal kiss, in full view of no one.


Yet even Judas was brother to some, friend of one.

A silver mouth overlaid with the tarnish of deceived deceit

was still not enough to steal compassion’s face,

bearing down on the grain of a lost friend.


Image: “The Kiss of Judas” by Caravaggio

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