And what did they write with their iron styli,
what complaints carve into his scholar skin
by order of the Emperor; by assignment
and timely, stab with their pens
up and down his spine,
his torso, his limbs, his long fingers
that taught them to curve letter
into word, sentence into shorthand,
educator’s vow into verdict,
switching his blood for ink,
dipping into the well of flesh
again and again until he died
stripped, bound, and tied
on that stake not unlike a cross—
the one who believed
what they did not?
What revenge, their litany of names,
this turning the word on the Word-giver;
in jest inscribing the prayers of the dead
on the dying, who would become—
before they closed their student eyes
to rest from the day’s composition—
the print on the page of that book
they’d never open, now or ever after,
the ending already written,
already read.
Previously published in Psaltery & Lyre and in Begin with a Question (Paraclete Press, March
2022).
Photo by Fernando Mola-Davis on Unsplash
