of the universe
some remnant of prayer shawl, Kippah, candle.
Vestment, nun’s habit, incense.
The moon can eclipse the sun, the moon’s red
and the red beads around grandmother’s neck
prefer superstition over His risen
body. Did He speak of revolt, defiance,
and passion? What’s a four-day old lamb good for
if not to slaughter and bloody the door frames?
The angel of death comes at midnight.
Camus’ stranger shoots the Arab once for death.
Four more times for no reason at all.
Judith Skillman is a dual citizen of US and Canada, and lives in Newcastle, Washington. Her work has appeared in Cimarron Review, Midwest Quarterly Review, Prairie Schooner, The Iowa Review, Threepenny Review, Zyzzyva, and other literary journals. She is the recipient of awards from Academy of American Poets and Artist Trust. Her recent collection is A Landscaped Garden for the Addict, Shanti Arts Press, 2021. Visit www.judithskillman.com
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