Two Judases

 
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In the high branches he stayed, prey to the trees spiked injection,
As Dawn fused, inner changes had turned much of his sweat into moss.
There were shards of bark in his mouth and at the corner of each eye,
Grubs and insects. As the body, rocked, wind resealed him,
By freezing the wounds with blood clots. Judas’ blood, slick like birds,
Or bright as the pulp of worms as they wrestle. His last repentence
Condemning, until there was little hope left for his shell.
Only the peeling away of the sin, and his sacrifice clogged by bird shit,
Ever gave proof of his passing, from this, the last leaving
To that first fire fucked morning in Hell.
 
You, however, remain in your acceptable morning, proclaiming love
In some fashion, like a favourite coat you can’t trade. Something to wear
Now and then, when it occurs to you to feel something, separate to your
Surroundings, no doubt something enclosed, a brocade.
One made from dying flowers, at that, and offered up, to the phantoms,
Who preen facetious yet grateful, while performing lost motions,
Or motions of old, within shade. I am the dark from which your opposing light
Achieves balance; by remembering little of the love that was Christ,
You’ve betrayed. So, stand by the tree. You will see my bones fold through
The branches. Judas’ last song and echo, carved from the wind, still unplayed.
 
 
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David Erdos
Montage: Claire Palmer
 

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