They told him he was an orphan,
to be swept, like so much dirt,
under the Empire’s carpet.
He had further to go than the Israelites
to be delivered into slavery.
The men of God would make an honest man of him.
This was not an attitude of prayer
as he knelt naked outside Brother X’s room.
This was no crucifix
he was made to clasp in the dark.
This was no blessed communion
he was forced to receive on his tongue.
This Judas betrayed him with more than a kiss.
Forty years he has carried his cross,
hoping for a resurrection of the truth.
“Silent night, unholy night,” we all sang
we were strangely silent.
The poet wishes to acknowledge The Press in whose pages this poem appeared.