Where Was the Scent of Kings?
(“The holy
writings say, ‘He was counted as one of the bad people.’ And I tell you, that
means me. And the things that are written about me must happen to me.” Luke
22:37)
Where was the scent of
kings,
the incense and the musk of triumph?
There was no uprising,
there was no parade with the captured in chains.
There were no guns or drones,
tanks and soldiers in a row.
There were no fighters or bombers
in formation overhead,
there was no parade on this independence day.
The back-alleys knew,
though;
they recognized his face from the galley of rouges.
While power showed off its pageantry
with chariots and swords,
he eschewed concealed carry and
entered conflict a prisoner of war.
We still ignore you
because we expect a display,
something to celebrate with fireworks,
a reason to wake up the neighbors,
a magistrate to enforce our suspicions,
a fire-thrower to engulf every sedition
and make it bow so loudly the universe can see
we anointed the king of our own choosing.
But you can be found at
the back of the crowd,
initialing the wet concrete.
You never catch our eye with gold,
never wear the trappings of battle.
You refuse to ride the warhorse down
our streets,
and enter in a borrowed jalopy.
We were happy with that for a while.
And now the scent of
myrrh, the fragrance
of death-and-life meets us in our doldrums
(Had we been awake, we would have read the
servant poem that describes a prince
who never gave a proper salute.)
And now all our paper
mâché mannequins
stand in abandoned palaces. You wait to meet us
outside our hidden prejudice.
