the woman brought before My Son
accused of adultery
was me
. . . could have been me, they ringed
with their stony eyes and
hardened hearts
fingers itching, bodies aching
to be next, too late to be the first
to cast a stone before the One
Who would know
what it’s like
to bear the Last Straw (Light
as a Cross) if Joseph
hadn’t stepped forward,
which is what
My Son
probably wrote in the sand, in
Belshazzar font, those oh so many
years ago
: Where is the man?
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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