Somewhere between a bird's nest and a solar system -- whom did the story use to fashion the crown of thorns, and did it prick them? Whom did the story use for judgement? Whom for betrayal? The slender filament of drool from too much Quaalude tethered her chin to her shoulder. When I came back she was sitting on the couch, her hands turned up, her face turned away and down. Every Annunciation is freaked with doom, flashed in crucifixion. Because I left home she was allowed to keep pushing her face through the windshields of collapsing automobiles, as if she wanted to be born from a speeding car. All according to plan, following the story in telling it. Pilate no more judges Christ than he judges the air he breathes. He is nothing. He washes his hands according to plan, another symbol. It would be like judging a cloud formation, the Grand Canyon, or an ant. Like washing less than nothing from your hands. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHAMBER MUSIC: 28 by JAMES JOYCE SPRING IN NEW HAMPSHIRE by CLAUDE MCKAY CLEAR AND COLDER; BOSTON COMMON by ROBERT FROST DISMAL MOMENT PASSING by CLARENCE MAJOR SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. SIBLEY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |