Station

Somewhere between a bird's nest and a solar system - whom did
the story use to fashion the crown of thorns, and did it prick
them?
Whom did the story use for judgement?
Whom for betrayal?

The slender silver filament of drool from too much Quaalude tethered
her chin to her shoulder.
When I came back she was sitting
on the couch, her hands turned up, her face turned away and down.

Every Annunciation is freaked with doom, flashed in crucifixion.

Because I left home she was allowed to keep pushing her face
through the windshields of collapsing automobiles, as if she
wanted to be born from a speeding car.
All according to plan,
following the story in telling it.
Pilate no more judges Christ
than he judges the air he breathes.
He is nothing.
He washes
his hands according to plan, another symbol.
It would be like
judging a cloud formation, the Grand Canyon, or an ant.
Like
washing less than nothing from your hands.

by James Galvin

Comments (1)

Everyone - every one - has a station in life; and everyone, sooner or later, catches a train outbound, for parts unknown, from their own station. Love this poem.