Anam Cara

THE SCOURGING AT THE PILLAR

When we love we love to touch the beloved.

Our hands find joy in the surprise of skin.

Here is where tenderness is uncovered.

Few frontiers hold a world more wondrous in.

Imagine the anger of their disturbance.

They cannot bear the portals his words create.

Helpless, turned inside out by his presence,

Sheltering from themselves as a crowd irate.

Made to face the pillar, the wrists bind him

Under the shadow of the angel of pain,

Who flogs, and waits, prefers a broken rhythm,

Until his back becomes a red text of shame.

His mind holds to the images of those he loves;

While his frightened skin swells under the scourge.