Under fallen palm fronds, the night birds are quiet…
the others sleep by moonlight
that night
So…
splinters of prayers
and choruses of tombs
and nails and crosses
are for His ears,
alone
and a million,
million nods here and over there
follow Him as He time-travels
from church to church
where women are stuffed into floral dresses
like Thanksgiving turkeys
and He goes from street to street
as gangstas signal
others to kill Him…
there are dogs in pounds at Christmas
and slaves forced to make Easter baskets
and egg cartons full of little girls,
crying in cages
where vileness slithers
like snakes in gardens…
and darkness covers
the face of the earth.
So…
He touches each face
that hates Him
caresses each hand
that hits at him
takes leashes handed to Him
by slave-whipped indifference
and even while He weaves rainbows,
prepares to be blamed for it all.
So…
He freefalls back
into His own frame
watches nighthawks
circle like Easter songs
above His head
and once again
walks through gardens
and prays