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David W. Parsley

Golgotha

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David W. Parsley

Golgotha

.

Spikes protrude like black horns

from the wounded palms. He is

naked and dumb, strung on the slivered beams

above earth he may not touch.

.

Ankle deep the faces ripple to his horizon.

Essence of sweat and vinegar floats above

boisterous wagers and gossip spreading quiet

as shadow touches the sea of them.

.

Darkness climbs the milk-white body of God

with clouds ascendant the face of heaven,

breath rising pitch by pitch into cries, wind

pushed like an army of lightning back to the city.

.

It blows through gates and courtyards spilling

shewbread beneath the pitch and snap

of curtains surrounding the Holy Place,

tearing like a withered scroll the hallowed veil.

.

And the eyes of saints around Jerusalem

come open in their graves.



 

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