Here is part of a longer piece just published at Umbrella. It concerns the Polish tradition of constructing and destroying an effigy of Pilate on Good Fridays. It is chiastic in rhyme scheme and line length.
Below, the village boys have stuffed you full of straw
and soon, they’ll cheer and take you from the street to church,
’though not to pray. The belfry’s where you’ll go
and once you’re there, they’ll curse your name and throw
you down, back to the street. Then rooks will drop and perch
upon your eye and clack around your shattered jaw.
Up here, I’ll watch it all. I’ll see them vie to take
what’s left of you and drag it down the riverbank.
They’ll rip your body, bit by battered bit,
and I’ll rejoice (the perfect hypocrite);
and when they’ve tossed each piece to where the last one sank
I’ll watch them kneel and cross themselves for Jesu’s sake.
|