Almost Poem by Ashley Akari

My fingers slide through
The sympathetic water,
Like iron slicing through
Warm, resigned flesh.

In the mirror straggles
The most potent blood—
Washed away.
Washed away?

Last night my wife
Dreamed solemn dreams—
This man of Nazareth
Was white as snow;

I nearly let him go.

But I am Pilate;
I am not free
But bound by laws
And duty and rites….
And wreaths and hopes
And fears.

Fears like tenacious,
Clammy hands and
The cry of the Nazarene—
Who, too late,
I think is God.

It is cold in the shade
Of this momentous cross,
Colder than the shadow
Of gold eagles and sense.
Cold with the iron
That holds him there
And a fistful of silver coins.

Clink, clink, bang, bang—
Echoes into eternity.
And I will suffer
Much in my dreams
Because of this Nazarene….

A child at the cross
Is wailing and my heart
Is wailing too—for sudden loss
Of courage and hope,
And the blood that won’t
Wash away.