Golgotha

Golgotha

J.P. Wright

The world winds down, mumbling subtle whispers
as young men gather smoke in piles
as young girls gather chesire smiles—
their elders know better and draw in pure air.
All swing sidereal— Oh! Susanna! don’t you
cry, cry, cry
for me. All crying in carbonized apartments
huddled ‘round Main St.’s ghost.

They’re celebrants, of Bacchan fame,
whose clouded eyes search with that purple,
Dionysian haze; whose hands cling
with swollen fingers to the heaving
casket of scarlet wine which hangs
upon the craggy edge of Earth,
squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.

They must be of that Roman kind,
preferring vinegar to wine,
soldier, soldier, soldier,
to quench the thirst of dying men,
no nuance in the death—
direct, sour, bitter, gone.

Or better yet, of Hebrew stock,
from every nation set adrift,
yet here they settle, nomads no
more— beneath the straight-backed,
wooden throne. It gives no shade.
But water flows from every side
to soothe the aches and blows
which dog the righteous even
as the gold coin passes from leather
purse to pruned
palm, palm, palm.

“There’s a balm,” I hear the elders
whisper, whisper, whisper,
but I can see plain the weltering,
weeping blisters which bubble
up from boiling skin exposed
to noonday sun. I can see the rivulets
of blood which come
running, running, running
down the bloated cheeks, olive-purple.
From the bruising.
From the beating.

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J.P. Wright
Student & Poet

J.P. has been published in Abilene Christian University’s annual, The Shinnery Review. He’s currently finishing up a bachelor's in Computer Science and preparing to pursue post-graduate education. If you’d like to read more of his work, check out his Substack at https://slogbook.substack.com/.

Photography by Svetlozar Apostolov