Sixteenth Hour
The watermelon drips on my beard
droplets of pleasure under the thick
grapevine shade from where apparitions
of lust spring up to dominate the heated
summer evening uncertain July without
a song on the prophet’s lips teased
from incongruous meditation
on a forgotten algorithm
of a sticky honeybee buzzing
in between gardenia stems of fear uncoiling
ever so tenderly into the lost
will of anathema He lounges still in cloud retreat
reflecting on whether He can triumph in
the fiasco of His first trial
sagacious blue-haired Death
elevates from the
bowels of fiery undercurrents
informs about a savior
warns that what is already
cannot be undone without expense
send them a willing savior
let him hold sin in his hands
and display him to the eyes
of Fates they need something
to meddle in or they risk
growing senile and people comply
when He shortly describes to
them the cross shape taken
from the limbs of a philandering
oak to frame the guest’s body and using forged
blacksmith pins He fastens the extremities
and heart upon the viewpoint
while nails bleat ‘why?’ and red-stained
cross answers: who cares?
Manolis Aligizakis 