Poetry: Good Friday
By Baillie Puckett
Photo by Wim van ‘t Einde via Upslash
We learned to murder men once a year,
string him up and crucify him.
Together, we consume their flesh,
as blood drips from our lips
like cheap wine.
The ritual should be a penance,
but there’s nothing Holy about slaughter.
Did you really think that once we knew the taste of blood,
we would stop after one?