Judas

I love that he did it with a kiss.

The traitor’s lips ooze toward Jesus

in generations of Flemish paintings.

 

I find the story fetching straight through the kiss,

but then it goes to hell. The apostles choose God

and torment Judas as a sacred act.

 

Returning the silver,

he becomes the sniveling model

for two millennia of Jews.

 

Humanity, if not God, rises

in the smudged chiaroscuro of Rembrandt’s Judas,

ringing his hands in grief.

 

The fat Pharisees, robed like royals,

are ready to send him

to their Abu Ghraib.

 

I’m with those who believe

that Jesus and Judas were in cahoots,

that the kiss was elegant code.

 

Who knew a ritual betrayal

would so feed the orthodoxy

that fearmongers on television screens

 

would violate our dreams with red-faced screams:

Who’s trying to take what’s yours?

Who’s the Judas?