Poetry

Sunday of the Passions

Cantando come donna innamorata,

continüò col fin di sue parole:

‘Beati quorum tecta sunt peccata!’

And going over the dishes, I see a sudden

Baldness at the tip of your head.

How long has it been there?

O John, I

Feel regretful. I regret to inform you that

This is it.

And cleaning my glasses, through my blur is

The aureate floor, fat with butt-ends.

And in the library that morning, you showed

Me a copy of Paradiso. I sighed, slid it

Down and cracked a specious smile.

For some reason that afternoon stuck out

Like a nail out of wood. Easter Sunday, and that

Wet tea-bag was just as flat and brown as the first

Or the last, or second.

The cracking painted sky

The threadbare lawn

Thirty pieces of silver seemed a good price,

Considering the mortgage. I have a confession to make, my

Love. I haven’t been paying the water bills, could I use your

Blood to wash it all away? O lord, what a to do.

Before you knew it, that was our last tea as a couple.

Give us this day our daily bread

Potatoes like a plate of skulls.

You raised your cup in toast. Drained it.

And that night I do not

Know how you knew

But you (he

He abused me he struck me he overcame me he robbed me)

Sterile clouds and dust coughed

Up from barren ground.

But Tat Tvam Asi which am I

Also. Do not go outside into the broken

Light of night

For you know not what you do.

Sorry now pours from the clouds like libations.

I shall turn the other cheek and you shall kiss it.

You are always with me, and everything I have is yours.

Henosis. Shantih. Mettā.

Aum. Amen. Us.

Ian Hartnell