But Lord, Where Would I Go?

A sword?  Some sword.
I grabbed a meat knife off the table
when Jeshua warned us
we had a betrayer in our midst.
Check the picture.  One bastard,
dead startled, knocks over the salt.
A boy swoons.  My hand sought,
found the nearest best weapon.
I could have killed the traitor
with one downward stroke right then.
Instead I tucked the blade in my robe.
As usual, I got things wrong.
Which, as usual, seemed
to be part of Jeshua's plan.
At the arrest, I hacked the ear
off an almost harmless servant
and let the proud walk by.
Still, I fingered the edge
of that blade and thought of
heroic rescue, and told myself lies
until the rooster broke them open
like egg yolks. Jeshua counted
on my cowardice too.
I'm not a butcher; I'm a fisherman.
As I travel from Jerusalem to Antioch
and buy a ticket to Rome,
always pretending to answer
certain people's questions,
I try to believe that than me,
Jeshua knew better. My friend
had to sell my friend. The night
had to happen and the following days.
But I wish I was eating Pesach again
and the knife was for lamb only
and all that that painter had to paint
was Jeshua telling one of his jokes
and the rest of us falling on our asses

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