John the Baptist - Matthew 3
A voice echoes from excavated marl, out of extravagant darkness. Vows leak from the lips of expatriated priests like broken aqueducts. In this desert of extremes, we will never eat again out of bowls prepared by our mothers’ hands. In Judean cliffs of sand, we’ve buried the bones to keep scavengers out. Floating on the Dead Sea, an exaltation of light. I’ve run out of expectations, tired of writing all we came out of without embracing what I’m made out of. A cough of dust and water. My expiation is an ax, ready to slash the tree’s roots, a splash of apostasy. Expelled brothers wander, eating locusts and grass. I dip them in honey. I want to live deep inside caves, lighting fires under vipers. Those who venture out have been taught to seek for cracks where water and light can seep in. Instead, plunge branches in this river with a shout. The sun glimmers on the shoulders of junipers as they are pulled back out.