took turns being the deserter.
handing each other over to
the big gaping myriad 
with his mouth
all pitchfork & drum. 
traded the bad bad around
until all of us had experience
with betrayal. in the zoo 
there were no curtains for hiding
dinnering. faces in pots of rice.
nothing to do with knees 
or remorse. we just had to know
who was capable of the shove 
& who was just never going to grind.
on the back porch i knit
crowns of thorns till my fingers
juice box bled. a pool party 
for dead frogs at the neighbor ritual.
how come no one has anything to say 
about victory anymore? how it is
actually quit easy to scoop
from another's tongue
if you turn him over to
stray dog-light. butter in 
the oven golding to glow.
washing each others feet 
in messiah mimicry. toes like
tulip buds. i could have been
any martyr but instead i chose
waking up every day to tend
the robot sheep & ward off wolves
with a wooden stick. if i could go back
i'd tell my fragment self 
"don't let anyone disciple you 
into limping." kneeling down
in their bareness i can tell
i won't last long. it's a game
of who is the loudest finger
snapped then gone. i want to be 
the forehead maker. the police
sniffing porches for word.
God with his head farther 
& farther in the clouds,
has no idea at all. 
pray with the old machine 
just to tell him
i am the terrible child 
with a catelog of uncertainties.
if there really is a savior
i hope he's not me. i have nothing
to execute but damage & drain.
boys coming back around.
whose turn it is to 
bite the prophet like 
a bedsheet?

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