Cassette tape split to
ribbons across the tile, I
was the culprit, having basked,
on repeat, to songs about
kindness and goodness,
peace, love, and joy, fruits
of the spirit, and my mom
searched the stores, to
no avail, but the message
stitched itself deep: You will
know a person’s spirit by
the fruits their presence bears.
Some years later, stained-glass
Sunday, I was appalled to
discover Judas’ trade, the
light of Jesus, thirty silvers,
then grew up to watch
the church trade him for
far less, rotten fruit in a
coat of wax, camera-ready
Christianity, oh the ache
of disillusionment.
I can pay no more heed
to the paternal counsel of
empty prophets, reveling
in the tears of the immigrant,
forgetting, ignoring, denying?
Jesus born, brown-skinned, under
shelter of a stable in a
strange land, these were
the stories, were the
stories on repeat, now spilled,
intestines along the floor,
and the fruits, far too
sour to bear.
michael king 