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King of the Jews
I spread my arms,
palms open,
assume the position.
I go through this routine daily,
imagine the thorns and the blood,
my life chopped off
into 33 years of a remembered
forever.
The other kids laugh
at this crazy boy
who thinks he's the son of Yaweh.
My absentee birth father.
Holy men will call these my lost years.
I know exactly where I am.
Already the waters run pink
when my robes touch them.
No-one in my village wants for bread
or for fish.
I will become the first hippie.
I will heal the sick.
I will be loved.
I will be hated, feared, betrayed.
I will forgive.
A whore will wash my feet, bear my child.
I will die on a hand-hewn cross
while my mother weeps,
a raw wound in the jeering crowd.
Pris Campbell
©2007 (slightly revised 2010)
Art: Artist Unknown. The art is a portion of a larger work.
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