Moshiach

The world is damp, and trees claw
at the indigo silk of the sky.
This is the day that you died, they say;
this cold night thinks of you.

They paint you clean, but on that hill
you were stretched wide and bolted down -
left defenseless and profane
as an open-legged whore.

You wore sweat and dirt and sour wine,
Jerusalem caked on your fingers.
When splinters of iron split your wrists
I felt my own hands beat them in. Forget,

forgive me, under these black-bruised clouds;
forgive me as metal grates your bones.
Forgive me as they spear you empty, as
blood fills your throat, as a woman screams

the name Joshua over and over
into the thirsty ground.