suppose we hit a golden spiral
taking us back to 33a.d.
then, the bud of us was no more than a swelling tear
cascading down a woman’s cheek,
upon converging with the blistering sand
somewhere north of mount zion
dare i purport that was the birth of us?
before the saviour even breathed his last
and saved us all. or so they say.
the fortunate. believers.
and i’d like to believe in something.
anything at all.
still, mind not that mary wept for us, in our creation,
just keep your wandering eyes on that carnation,
scarlet turning to hot pink in the lewd glare of the sun
under your hands, the buttons of my shirt fumble undone.
Christians believe that the first carnation bloomed on earth when Mary wept for Jesus as he carried his cross.