Guess My Name
Jonathan was no beauty,
at least, not physically.
His spine carved his back
like a path through the Black Forest.
His face so gnarled and lined with boils
it looked like a jar of marbles.
He was a mish mash, a goblin,
a thing that made children scream
through the night.
Jonathan loved children.
Not to eat, like the sharp looking
bone crags in his mouth might suggest.
He longed to cradle a cooing cherub
in the crook of his elbow.
Wanted the moment of first steps,
outstretched arms wobbling for balance
with plodding feet falling in to a run
towards him.
Jonathan wanted this so badly
I swear I could have watched the moment play out
in the dark orb of his pupil.
I loved him.
Loved the hugs he warmed with his soul.
He looked built for death,
but his clever hands were only for carpentry.
He built me a beautiful loom,
and I’d spin and weave with a bursting chest.
Afterward, he’d fiddle a tune while I danced,
and sang him a song with our names in it.
We’d make love,
collapsing like two ancient trees, entwined.
I wanted to give him his wish.
Would that I could spin dreams from straw.
But neither one of us had the plumbing
and we feared the protests and pitchforks
of good Christian neighbors
when two little men tried to file adoption requests.
Best to keep quiet. Safe.
But Jonathan’s heart was a cracked vessel
I could only fill so much
I’m not proud of what I did.
I saw myself as a hero, I suppose.
The girl was already doomed by her father’s false tongue,
Her weeping rocked the earth so hard,
I could barely contain my curiosity.
It was simple enough problem for me to fix,
to spin straw into gold.
She kept her life, and made us a new one.
I should never have promised Jonathan.
I told him I’d be back in a week,
that we’d be a family and it was a boy.
He’d already carved the crib as I trudged away.
I should have known what a mother’s love would do,
She wept and pleaded when I came for the baby,
I couldn’t bear to break the vessel in her chest
so I gave her time and a bargain.
Thought I was being so clever and unique,
but I grew careless, got caught.
I should never have danced and sang
without Jonathan’s fiddle.
His heart fell in a chasm when I told him the news.
His pupils dark and blank,
the images gone.
The marble jar of his face burst open and sobbing.
I found him hanging from a tree in the morning,
a gnarled branch dangling.
His beautifully carved fiddle
lay soiled under his feet.
I screamed and beat my chest,
stomped my feet so hard with grief
I thought I would split the earth.
Choked out our song between the sobbing wracks of my ribs.
I didn’t care who heard me
I had nothing left to fear from good Christian neighbors.
I let it become my hymn for him.
Carve you man with chiseled hands
My lips are shaped by Jonathan,
Weave and spin a merry man
With the love of Rumplestiltskin
Lazarus of Bethany
Upon learning that his friend Lazarus had died
Jesus wept.
Jesus wept.
That is what is written,
that you wept
for me.
Do you remember when my sister first told you?
That I lay dying in the town of Bethany,
convulsing and riddled with sweat?
You could spit sight into the blind,
cause lepers’ sores to fall from their skin like mud flakes.
You were a healer and our friend,
we had no reason to believe you wouldn’t come.
But you didn’t.
You just waited.
Do you know that I cursed you with my last breath?
I was so hurt. So scared.
But when this house of flesh collapsed
my soul… it flew!
You were right about Heaven’s majesty!
The sights, the sounds,
reunited with my ancestors; my mother and father.
Paradise as you preached it,
I felt so blessed.
Eventually, you did come to Bethany,
and you knew that I was dead.
Jesus wept.
That is what is written,
that you wept
for me.
You wept, despite all your talk of the next life,
of the eternal kingdom of your father.
Was it that you couldn’t bear my absence?
Did my sister’s tears make your heart grow heavy?
I still remember the sound of your voice calling my name,
“Lazarus! Rise!”
You yanked my spark back into this spent wood pile
to keep me from ash and dust.
I didn’t know your reasons.
I just assumed that your grief had made you selfish.
I prayed you hadn’t heard my final breath’s curse.
My body had already been in the grave for four days, rotting.
I still carry that corpse’s stench,
that spoiled meat.
Four days! Four days!
Why did you take so long?
You could have come earlier,
you could have healed me,
but you had a plan that you kept close, secret.
You’re so like your father.
It wasn’t until you took the stage on Golgotha
that I put it all together.
I was just a dress rehearsal, wasn’t I,
before you took your final prestige?
You ripped me out of paradise to practice a magic trick.
And this time,
I wept.
I wonder what it was that you saw in me
after I came back from four days of death
that made you decide
you had better only try for three.
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