Third Soldier



Women wailed,

a soldier coughed,

uneasy.



Another muttered,

couldn't be heard,



the third sent

a sponge

sopped in oil.



God drank unslaked,

took to heaving,

but not before making

certain requests.



Many women wailed.

Others left.

Kids became restless.

It was almost over.



A wife,

dry-eyed and disgusted,

flung her hand:

They're laughing at you!



Truly,

this Jesus was polite.

Those soldiers knew

exactly what they had done.



They did it all the time.

Some lived to wonder

if they'd really

loved their crimes.



Some forgot,

others couldn't:

owned atrocities,

shame and pride.



The third soldier,

who had raised

the dripping pike

and swabbed



the lips of Christ,

came stoically,

many nights

into the throats



and bellies

of Jews and Christians

alike. He pressed

their heads down.



Crude irony,

not funny,

though perhaps

righteous



that such scenes

should play out

again and again

in his life.



Doomed,

he was comfortably

unsurprised about

everything



else

that ever happened

to him. Incapable

of guilt.



Christianity.

He wondered:

can it be true?

He marveled,



with reservations,

at the enormity

of his sins. The way

one might marvel



at rumors

of distant natural

disasters. Earthquake,

floods, famines,



pestilence.



In Rome, in the time

when Christians were

having their throats torn out,

this third soldier



went to see the lions.

They came from Africa.

He was engrossed

by their awesome boredom.



How careless their stalking,

how listless their pounces.

Arrogant, they killed

only to sniff with disdain

at the corpses. As if

to say: remove this



Two moved together

away from their slaughter.



The old soldier left

saddened, and strangely

frightened

to be so alone.