Two Roman Soldiers Encounter John the Baptist
The man walks chest-high
in the sound of the river
through images that wrinkle.
His face is blank as a bowl.
Repent, he repeats,
and enter forgiveness,
the love with ripples.
We are skilled at watching strangeness
from a hawk-sharp stillness.
And we can kill it deftly if it’s dangerous.
But we don’t seem to hate him
as our boots turn and scrape
their blackness on the color of the rocks.
We don’t know why we edge toward him.
We know there is no forgiveness
that will love us as we are.
We do Caesar’s will
and lift our virtues out of that.
But we have questions.
Does the first to kill
own all the deaths that follow?
Would the forgiver own them too?
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Patricia Nelson