After Caravaggio’s “The Taking of the Christ”
The urgency of the kiss,
the many hands that hold him fast,
one at his throat, one furling a bright
cloak to net him in the web of lies
weft and woven by his brother,
not the first one moved to murder
the beloved in a garden. Cries
of horror sound the silence
of Christ’s sorrow at the center,
his own hands bound by his will,
they offer no resistance
to those he knows will kill
him in the dark hours to come,
their faces full of appetite
and action, only his is still,
the flick of lantern light
singling him out as the one
who dared to promise peace,
who said the kingdom come
is here and it is one of love,
not what they’re thinking of
trapped by their old violence.
He knew it would come to this.
He longs for and suffers the kiss.
