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,

still raw,

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?