Friday, March 29, 2013

A Maundy Thursday poem

The Fly’s Opportune Time
It’s Maundy Thursday.  The
Giant fly eyes the bread
And glides in for a landing –
Right there, in front of
God and everybody. 
This target’s too inviting to
Pass by.  Sweet and yeasty,
Full of life, the bread sits
There, defenseless.  Just as
This is no daily bread, this is
No small-time fly.  Twice the
Size of a picnic pest, the fly
Bears an air befitting its
Stature.  Even on the altar of
Sacrifice, unlike the bread
The fly won’t be denied.
We small men flick fingers
And wave hands, boys
Playing at power.  But
The fly knows better.  It’s
Been working the long con,
Waiting for this very night,
And it’s not going anywhere.
On this night of willing
Sacrifice, Jesus there at table
With his friends, the fly
Takes its time and
Makes its move.  The bread’s
Still there, of course, still
Whole and sweet and good.
But germs have now
Been spread, and only
Moments separate the
Lovely, holy now from
Creeping disease to come.
-- John Spicer

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