for RB
Amid the din of the chickens and lambs
that cried as our knives slit their throats,
through the blood sludge and slaughterhouse
air of their temple, the Roman inspector
made sure of our sin. We did quick work
to be done before He could see. Outside,
men we had prayed with last week screamed
at our brothers not to come in, their voices
faltering under a gurgling froth of blood
as the centurions steamed in with swords
and battle shields raised to martyr them.
When we stumbled out into the sun
from one sacrifice to the other, we saw
one death was better and we were ashamed.
Shame outlives tyrants in villages smaller
than tongues and memories are long. Talk
of our sin and our cowardice echoed
for decades around the markets and churches
and, even if we flayed our own backs with knives,
we were Romans to them and they could not forgive.
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