Christ

a poem by Roger B Rueda

You were a fresh pea in the pod
of eternity, indulgent, innocent,
modest, longsuffering, warm.
You began to seed yourself
down the steep hillside
of Golgotha 2013 years ago,
your hull smashed, castigated,
unloved, reviled, spurned.
My grandmother, yes,
she is, she must be
a squash in the garden
of all time now, bearing
bounties, the old woman
your select seed, I consider,
her glasses lost when she
acted upon a sacrament;
she went home squinting
at the street.
I know the laws of Segregation
and of Independent Assortment.
Mum, too; me, too:
we’ve chosen you.
We’ve been dripping wet
in your blood, our time:
we are folding up,
flourishing, rousing, withstanding,
making out, entreating, waiting –
till the stretch we, too, seed
ourselves in memory of your love.