She knows beyond a shadow
of a doubt it’s he
hunched between spokes
of fire-light, a disciple
of jaded spirit begging warmth.
Later they’ll say this
was the way it was prophesied,
how he drowned his no
in the Sea of Galilee
only to have it return
in a cacophony of cockcrowing.
Meanwhile, his charade
leaves her standing alone
in the cobbled courtyard.
Her idea of God sputters,
swaddled in fear
and distraction.
She brushes back
a strand of hair, ponders
the word denial.
A sudden tightness
inhabits her chest
as behind her the devil
chuckles and the scorpion
bites the One
she wants to believe in.
Her eyes blur under the sting
of invisible screams
in the huge grey room
of her confusion.
What if she’s dreamed
it all?
In her hand a small
and flickering wick
gnaws a hole in the dark.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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