when one closes and the wall
of unopened entrances sits hard
against the conscience of the holy man
waiting for that opening to envelop
his soul. But that's too ethereal a word:
say rather than the mote in God's eye
that those closed doors are not part
of a resurrection but instead a piling
on of thoughts better left unsaid.
The fly that enters the doorway
only to be caught by the spider;
the human who opens the door;
only to be caught on the cross,
made manifest in deadly wounds.
I am the way and the truth
and the light of the Lord. Your
panic is my pleasure. It's always
there: the submission, the torture,
the death oh God the resurrection
of life, the healing of wounds, great
gulping sky of salvation accessible
only through me: caught on iron
spikes which eliminate the Roman
soldier, only Barabbas left this world
humble, knowing what he'd be given at
the whistle and knock of the world's end.
RUSTY BARNES lives and writes in Revere MA, His work appears widely. In March 2024, Redneck Press will publish his fourth story collection HALF CRIME. His most recent poetry chapbook is DEAR SO & SO. You can find him on SM @rustybarnes23.