And Peter Went Out

There is longing in his face,
softness and the serpent’s fall

in mildness, in aching,
exclusion next to misery.

Hands knotted of his own accord,
yielding, bungled brazenness.

Three sets of eyes
parallel each other in accusation,

in smolder, in rooster shrewdness.
Brown sash cloaks

the heft of the red tunic.
Cold marble upstages a lone spear.

Hard to look away
whether believer or cynic.

He slumps in shame, supplication,
unreckoned to the line he’s crossed,

waiting for someone, anyone,
besides his conscience to speak.

Tears, alone, wait
for the Lamb to be sheared.

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This poem also appears in the February 2023 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 88, No. 2, page 8). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.