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St. Peter

There came an eerie numbness to his feet,
As gravity tried its strength against the beat
Of blood within his aged, impetuous breast.
Against the setting sun, his upturned beard
And hair, fanned out absurdly like a crest,
Were shorn by shimmer, and the soldiers jeered.
The pillar found its deep predestined slot,
Plunged down a meter, jolted now erect,
The wrist-and-ankle-strangling cords stretched taut;
The silent crowd heard the joints disconnect,
And turned aside their reverend conscious eyes,
As not to see the wracked face turning red,
And therefore missed him smiling with surprise
To see the fallen world put on its head.


by Daniel Janeiro

This poem first ran in the Sep/Oct 2006 edition of Grub Street Grackle. It appears here online for the first time.

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