John the Baptist - Matthew 3
A voice echoes from excavated marl, out
of extravagant darkness. Vows leak
from the lips of expatriated priests like broken
aqueducts. In this desert of extremes, we will never
eat again out of bowls prepared by our mothers’
hands. In Judean cliffs of sand, we’ve buried the bones
to keep scavengers out.
Floating on the Dead Sea, an exaltation of light.
I’ve run out of expectations, tired of writing
all we came out of without embracing
what I’m made out of. A cough of dust and water.
My expiation is an ax, ready to slash
the tree’s roots, a splash of apostasy. Expelled
brothers wander, eating locusts and grass. I dip them
in honey. I want to live deep
inside caves, lighting fires under vipers. Those who venture out
have been taught to seek for cracks
where water and light can seep in. Instead, plunge branches
in this river with a shout. The sun
glimmers on the shoulders of junipers
as they are pulled back out.