The Cup

“But concerning that day or that hour, no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.” – Mark 13:32

With the sky still draped in black, the son,
dazed by the fog-shroud of sleep,
is roused to wake by the father and his stern

command: Get up. It’s time to go.
The son rises, dresses slowly in the dark,
and walks solemnly through the moonlit

halls of the empty mansion. In the armory,
he wordlessly sharpens swords and shines them
with shaky hands so each is an unblemished

mirror. In the stable, the horses fidget
in agitation, but the son strokes their manes
and whispers soothing songs to calm

their collective nerves. At the cusp
of dawn, he mounts his steed and looks east,
where the fire of day will soon ignite,

leaving a world of ashes in its wake.
He sighs deeply and prays as he sets off:
yet not my will, but yours be done.

Maundy

Miles of dirt are clinging
to my legs, to my feet,
as I arrive at the pool,
the natural void
filled in by the river
as it makes its way down
the mountain. The water meditates
in stillness. The sky is a deep
cerulean, bannered by white
strips of clouds. I remove
my shoes and place my feet
in the water, and the alpine
chill pierces the skin
as it cleanses. I sit
for a long time, swishing
my feet in circles, before I
notice the thistle whiplashes
on the arm, the salt collection
scattered on the forehead,
the dull ache echoing
under the skin. I remove
the rest of my clothes, stand
naked under the warm sun
of summer, look down
into the bottomless basin,
and close my eyes as I jump,
the fall feeling like eternity.

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