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Jesus of the car park of Our Lady and Saint Mun (poem)

 

 

It was in this place

that he finally ceased wandering.

No longer content to mull

among the goatherds and incurable


nor to pace the gilded marble

of the Vatican’s sepulchred halls.

His lamb’s heart stiffened

from the cold contents


of grubby subway sleeping bags,

the slick varnished desks of the city. 

No longer did people weep

with tears of blood, enraptured


only by the Word—today’s miracles

aren’t worth the receipts they’re printed on.

Rousing Lazarus from his wormy bed,

routing demons to a squealing


frenzy of sea-drowned pigs—

only so much myth and fairytale.

Old tricks reduced to bookish curio,

drowsy seminar in a lifeless tongue.


Seeing this, Jesus knew he’d seen enough.

Now his only neighbours

are a whitewashed nursing home

and a proud old magnolia that shades a fountain


filled with dessicated leaves. 

Each Sunday he fatherly ushers

a small but dedicated flock 

of floral women, their sons and husbands


dressed to make a good impression.

For the men, eternal life

is a dire business,

whereas the women smile


laugh and gossip, compliment

each other’s health. Year on year

above his crown the solstices revolve,

wheeling through seasons


of dwindling stars, through calendar rituals 

of sugared almonds and patterned eggs,

through boxes of tinsel

and candles twisted up an evergreen.


But most days he’s alone,

attended only by a congregation

of gravel and weeds,

his smooth palms open to the rain,


the paint of his humanity 

slowly dissolving

to purest white 

plaster.



 


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