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Christ, the End
- Red Hen Press
- Chapter
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28 Christ, the End As ghost I returned to them. I ascended. They discovered only shadows of their own grief, heaved the stone away. My wounds would not heal. They wrapped me in coarse cloth. I was limp when they lowered me from that wooden crossroads. Forgive them, I said. Lightning rended the sky. Thunder. Thieves recognized me. Later he hanged himself, coins dropping all over the darkness. In the garden they came for me. He is the one, called my most beloved. We laughed, ate a fine dinner of fish, loaves and figs, things of the good earth. Shared common wine. Thirteen of us. The town a miracle, streets of palm. They sang in their rags. The donkey, contrary beast, guiding me. Forty nights. The serpent whispered, but I dared not answer. I scoured myself in sand. I don’t, my brother said. I don’t, I do not know him. 29 I threw the gold in their faces. Fatted ones deaf to the word. You defame this house, I cried. The storm calmed. These men, mine, cowered on deck. I raised my arms to clouds. I awoke and came from below. I took the bloodied face in my hands. Which of you?, I asked. They rained stones down on her. Lead us, they said. A mangy group, fishermen and collectors. The rest is known: I was a builder, then a builder’s apprentice. The circumstances of my childhood unnecessary. Kings bowed. Goat and cow, sheep, dove, hard straw my mother writhed upon. My bemused and quiet father. I descended. No room, not for you, leered the innkeep. His bolted door, our knock, fearful. The beginning. ...