Poetry

On Maundy Thursday, For Good Friday

Written by Márcia Smith

 

Cains

Every one of us

Bitter fruit of

half-hearted labors

Bittersweet taste

Of a serpentine knock

Swiftly answered;

Bitter scent

of a lamb-cradling brother’s

Blood

On the wind

Spattered

Back into the black-cursed soil

to fill parched roots

warm old bones

sweeten brackish waters

Bless fruit

Of our labors,

Even

Our twisted sweat-soiled brows,

to kiss

with tenderness

these dry, bitter-set lips.

 

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