Josephs
Josephs, or Womb/Tomb (Good Friday 2017) I. Let there be. Let it be. Fiat. That one word That blasts open, both the testaments From God's mouth and a maiden's, a teenage girl And her creator, her son - searing, nuclear-blasting All creation into being and the Almighty into her womb. Yet what about the others, the ones drowned out By those two bass-note walls of sound? That man, for instance - balding, nodding at his lathe, Waiting for marriage to his teenage-bride, or perhaps Just a little senior, childhood sweetheart, Impatient to marry the girl next door. Imagine him, daggered, staggered, reeling - his bride untrue Or unhinged, telling him oh-so-calmly of another man's child Or the offspring of Yahweh, the indivisible. How can this be? Enough love left to uncouple in silence, to lose her To rip the seam between them. He rubs the gall, the saltwater from his face, Remembering hers, her face, her Tears, and settles on ...