HOPE ON GOOD FRIDAY

Beloved Jehovah
of David,
or by Jove of Ovid

where are we
bid
after Nietzche,

the dead gods
are not livid
any more

at least no one can
appeal to them
in the call to war

now forgotten, riddled
of every laughter's myth
large or small fable,

we invite Esther or Mordechai
to recline in a fallen chair
at a Easter-Passover table

eggs filled with tasty goods
from our piecemeal yeast
of not risen unleavened bread

having eaten
a slice of our democratic
pi of pies

playing dumb
for a scientific
crumb,

in a settlement
or accident of history
wishing to be independent

not wanting to hear
of crowning newer Nero's
or heroes drowning in the Tiber

O Pound and Eliot
what have your critical
musical sounds wrought

as a new Cain sought Abel
has again been slaughtered
slain and quartered,

there is now no sacred wood
since the red fields, October 1973
in your own neighborhood

Rabbi Jesu remember us
in your freedom's
kingdom and government

Smile the sun on Gentile and Jew
the remnant of a few
out of the nations

who bow under star or cross
before more than 14 stations
in a ditch water fosse

the Franciscan daughters
from a convent on Mt. Zion
praying for us,

we who wish to
believe on you
with our revelation's lips

redeemed in the spring
from watery floods on branches
of a coming Apocalypse.