BROTHER QUAESTOR
The detention minister could see the gray fortress
to the left side of the freeway after crossing
the Bay Bridge. Like an industrial incinerator
without a smokestack, the Hall of Justice reveals slits
instead of windows on its top two floors. The Capuchin
friar ascends this mountain's eight storey purgatory,
the despair and rage in temporalis made tangible
in the concrete floors, the steel bars and open toilet stalls.
Most of the cells have mattresses on the floor
to accommodate the overflowing population
who wait lethargically for court in bright orange jump
suits, except those clad in red, the violent offenders.
The chaplain carries a surplus gas mask bag filled with prayer
supplies, Bible, Rite of Penance, holy cards. His presence
soothes like a draft, the county jail swelters like
a sauna, the smell of sweat commingles with the pungency
of hair gel. He walks the line of the cellblock wearing
a brown robe habit, knotted rope belt, sandaled feet. He hands
out the plastic rosaries to the eager prisoners
who wear them around their necks like talismans.
On Sundays, the prayer service always ends with sobbing
choruses of Peace is Flowing Like a River, and all
the verses of Amazing Grace; every published and
improvised version lets the wraiths linger on the porch
beyond the tomb of lock-down.
After the recessional hymns, the specters file back
to their cells to be cloistered again from society,
their Divine Office a Litany of the Penal Code.
Brother Quaestor can leave at the end of the day,
carrying the soul-damaged testimonies, the bitter
stories like a bundle of bruised reeds.
The Franciscan dreams the incarcerated rise up like
incense from the depths, redeemed from the paper mill
that pulverizes to pulp and strings dripping wet leaves
of paper out to dry under a scorching sky,
pages of Miserere flapping in the vindictive wind.
He prays the God of all mercies may cleanse the ink-stained faults,
while justice does not blot out the indelible crimes.
ONE WHO STROVE
for Coach W.
Gripped by wrestling season, I would wake to run at dawn
through a sleeping neighborhood. The frosty smoke billowed
from my heaving lungs. I would meditate on my match,
as I bounded along the ice-patched pavement,
ready like Jacob to prevail. Only champions
drag themselves from bed to leap awake.
My flesh knotted briskly, I loved the sweat and stench,
the strain of muscles. My fists clenched and my feet pounded
the last mile's hammer. I would crush any
opponent, whether man or angel, to bounce the foe
onto the mat. Then I would grapple through the final sprint,
and my ego would pop out of socket. What if I lost? Would I
writhe all night with the countless ifs? If only I had torn
his tendons, bruised his ribs, bent his shoulder blades flat.
If only I could forget, let my injury heal. I would limp
to the shower with my blessed doubt.
ECCE HOMO
for Matthew
What would Jesus do,
once he could be lured
to the place of the fractured,
pistol-whipped skull,
and once, in the freezing air,
he could be lashed to a barbed
wire fence outside Laramie?
This Passion play twists
with a Queer catharsis:
the Gay Shepard boy
pleads for his life,
and executioners pound
his marred head beyond
any human semblance.
The religiously
intolerant would not see
the Crucified in disguise.
They would not hear
the gentle spirit's refrain:
Forgive them even when
they know fully what they do.