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First night with no moon. Heat so deep
it hums a bedouin's oasis. Dead Sea,
perfectly still where Jesus stands.
Snake-oil spokesman for illusion, Satan
paces behind him. You can be richer, stronger —
It's us against them, he says and Jesus
lets him talk awhile, even listens.
The breath scalds, a smoke of moths —
and he's not above his shadow's fears.
He weeps at the vision, Jerusalem villas
and courtyards burning, the garrison looting,
skewering children. And he knows Satan wants him
weak when he offers Caesar's kingdom.
So when Christ looks down, his sorrow dangles
over limestone, fashioning the city out of air —
Lately wavelengths with the other world
have been erratic, channels jammed,
currents crossed and that image of a crucifix,
nothing
he cares to look at. The demon laughs,
his sputum flies, brush fires brew
where it lands and rodents gallop —
You're not real unless I say so, Jesus answers.
And Satan flares his bat cape, spinning
off the parapet, to fall like dust
on Jesus's sandal. Like ash and bone
spaded by sun. Sulphur scent
of storm and wires shorting out.
Christ stumbles on his shelf of shale,
whispers Be Gone — my troubled twin,
my withered angel, lost semblable,
forgiving
the dark part of himself.
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