by Don Narkevic

Around Me, the stink 
of sour wine, sweat, and blood.
Below, soldiers fistfight, 
tear my garments
except for my tunic. Seamless,
the spectacle, the mob
cursing at Me, at each other,
the endless babel waiting 
for the end. Of the two men
beside Me, I recognize one
as with Me in Paradise
only moments from now. 
Now I thirst 
for the scent of hand-hewn wood
in father’s workshop, My hands
skilled with saws, stone hammers, 
chisels, and bow drills. 
The irony taste of blood
I suck from a fingernail
jammed by a splinter,
Me, not yet a healer. 

I cannot spit.

To a friend, I give My mother,
as I give My side to be pierced,
Scripture fulfilled
until I have nothing left
to give and it is finished
like a late supper,
a lone desert walk,
evening prayer, bringing on night,
a stone sealing a borrowed tomb,
skin, bones, and soul, 
for a while, like a newborn, 
wrapped in swaddle. 

---

Don Narkevic: Buckhannon, WV. MFA National University. Current work appears in Literary Yard, Ariel Chart, and The Lake. In Spring 2022, Main Street Rag will publish a novella of poetry entitled, After the Lynching.