I am Diagnosed, by J.M. Kolodzyk

call me Judas—

 

the betrayer with a

dirty sack of coins

between my legs, running

 

call me Pontius Pilate—

 

the eclipsed moon

cannot disguise

streams of rose petals

dripping into a bowl

of clear water as I

hide within this stone chamber

away from the populace

 

call me

 

the pages were dirty,

a Southside kid

without clear comprehension,

did you see me as this?

it is no doubt

I am misunderstood

I misunderstood

 

sorrow, I pray,

the halls of the

Basilica sponge

my prayer

unanswered prayer

for forgiveness,

understanding that

God has made us—

yes, you and I—

flawed

and things cannot be

unwrought

even in Joseph’s

workshop

 

is there strength in

this friend,

or even greatness?

tendril-feelers

sense this

 

I reach out

a sensation

to call

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