HERE COMES MY BETRAYER

by Josh Cake

Good Friday, 2020

it's a funny old weekend. the Good day

is the day a man was killed, carpenter

fastened to wood. I'd hitch my horse,

or better, a donkey, to the forgotten

rebel, barefoot wandering, breaking

bread and rules in equal measure, rage

against a machine for breaking people.

"here comes my betrayer." in the garden,

a kiss marks a target for the most worn

path in history: a Jew begins the march

to his execution. who chose the signal

and was it balm for guilt? "it was only

a kiss, it was only a kiss", echo mantra

of absolution, or so sang the Killers.

in Rome at eighteen, proud doubter, I

scorn gods but cheer for the anarchist

scattering coins, whip for the wealthy,

overturned tables. "you have turned

a house of prayer into a market, a den

of thieves." this man does not believe

in power, money, or priests: Comrade.

"here comes my betrayer." teenager

saunters the Lateran Basilica, stained

glass, mosaics, carvings, stop to stare

at the souvenir shop inside the temple.

what would he do? I know I should flip

that table, but choose laws as I leave,

sickening weight of hammer in my hand.