【by Kevin Rogers】

Morning of Wednesday
I reach in my ashtray
And smudge on my forehead a cross

With Tuesday’s joint
I am born of Abel
Or was it Cain who was stoned?

It has been too long,
I can no longer remember
Except from that old Spike Lee film.

“Let me tell you the story of Right Hand, Left Hand. It’s a tale of Good and Evil. Hate! It was with this hand that Cain iced his brother. Love! These five fingers? They go straight to the soul of Man.” –Radio Raheem, Do the Right Thing

Friday arrives
On an empty platter
But I ordered the filet.

“Mignon?” they ask.
“We’re out,” they say.
Fish?

I give up something
I’ll give up treading water
At least on Fridays. Fish.

Icarus crashed into the water when he gave up flying. Where will I land if I give up treading water? Will I sleep with the fishes like Luca Brasi? Or will the crabs and the catfish make me their God?

Sunday morning
Her palm rests on my face.
“Good morning” I groan.

She smiles tearfully.
Today I must go
Back to the city

Where I will be met
With no palms on my face
As I wake.

“Darling,” I say, “give me the orange.” Her palms are deeper now, her hands curled into arthritic claws. But they still fit perfectly in mine. I will peel her oranges even when she will not let me because she says she can do it. I will do it until the day my fingers fail, and even then one day longer. And she will tell me she can do it every time. And I will peel away, smiling.

Wednesday evening
You sold me out for gold?
Not even, you

Sold me out for silver
You cheap bastard.
And you don’t even know it yet.

Thirty coins? Thirty.
I washed the feet that will never again touch the earth
Never again to be dirty.

“Then Judas threw the silver coins down in the Temple and went out and hanged himself.” Matthew 27:5

Thursday night
Table for twelve.
“There are thirteen of us,”

You correct me.
I am leaving soon, my friend.
Table for twelve.

Break for me this bread
Drink for me this wine
Do for me my time.

I am not hungry. I cannot think of this meal, this company. I love them dearly, and for twelve hours longer, they will know it. Then I will die.

Friday morning
I march. Early.
And stretch my hands atop the hill.

You who have brought me to this
Say what you will, but I gave you your chance
And you gave me mine.

We are incompatible,
In opposing colors dyed
And now I have made my mother cry.

Goodbye.