Heads Up poetry column: Jesus
By Philip Appleman
JESUS
We’re cast in the image of God,
they say, but
up here the image blurs—
that Pharisee at the edge of the crowd,
the one with a burro’s belly
and a toad’s complexion
is he the real thing, God
in the flesh?
Or maybe that saintly starveling, all
bones in her pinched piety—does God
have a profile like hers?
Just days ago, these very faces,
rainbowed with joy, saw palm trees
ripped and strewn for the son of man. Now
my palms are red,
and it’s all changed—bloodlust
smudges the thousand grins
of God. Here
in this Friday frenzy, just
look at them, the veins
in that legionnaire’s legs, the brutal
mouth, the pocked face, and . . .
And of course the handsome boy out there
eyeing the splendid line
of that girl’s arm—them, too.
It all counts,
doesn’t it?
I suppose they aren’t even wondering,
this godly rabble out for fun,
expecting something big today, something
spectacular. So I should be telling them,
now, before I’m dust forever—
you don’t pay off an ugly squint
with a nice ankle; a luscious
lower lip doesn’t make up
for a running sore; and above all, nobody
ever promised you justice.
All you have to know is
that a beautiful shoulder is God, but
a twisted leg is God, too,
and crooked noses and bad teeth. This
is the real revelation—that God
is only a trick with mirrors, our
dark reflection in the glass.
So up here, getting this panoramic view,
I hear the voices of God on every side,
all mocking me, “Hold on,
it’s your big scene!” And I cry out
to every smooth and sacred cheek,
to every holy wart and pustule—the spikes
tearing at my hands—I call to every
body on this hill of skulls,
Why?
Why have you
forsaken me?
From Perfidious Proverbs and Other Poems: A Satirical Look At The Bible