The Garden of Gethsemane

I cannot tell you what the trees whispered to him that night
air ripe with the scent of living, fruits pungent, leaves
clapping, harmonising with the crickets rhythmic screech.

What could trees whisper to a Black man juggling sorrow
on the eve of his catastrophe, face tortured, back bent
from the weight of prophesy, kneeling in damp soil,
thoughts wrestling. Each worry a serrated knife gorging flesh.

Say he was weeping, beating his chest, murmuring big man
don’t cry, wanting to unshackle from his father’s heirloom
but what Papa does not force their son into a square box,
each corner reinforced with the black tar of hardening expectations.

And the garden was not a tonic. When he spoke to the leaves,
did they not turn their backs, curl into their spine to recede
into their own nourishment, leaving him to keep his own vigil
on this seemingly ordinary night, the eve of his prophesied death.

And those disciples! My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, even
unto death, tarry ye here, and watch with me, he asked them.
Oh those fickle hard ears men, how their snores became bass
in the ripe music of this garden. How they will regret

not catching the tremor in his voice, the slight waver
each pause. Regret will sit heavy on their chests
whenever they remember this garden, and not reading
the nuances, his pathos, between each utterance of his asking.

Sit ye here while I go to pray. Meaning, sit so we can converse
in the language of grief. Meaning, it is my last night with you.
Let us partake in the language of wake, lick down dominos,
and make ole talk, come nah man. Meaning, be my brothers tonight.

Come lick down double six and rock the table, disturb the still
of the night. He wanted ole talk, lime and labrish.
My soul exceedingly sorrowful even unto death.
but his brother’s snores mingled with the owls hoot and the leaves

turned their backs, while his kinfolk sprawl out in sleep.
The nails, the nails
bones breaking, splintering
bearing timber on your back
like a donkey carrying load

Say he is weeping and beating his chest muttering
big man don’t cry, Mourning his lack of ordinariness.
Mourning his body will not rot, worm and decay.
Maggots will not feed on his flesh.

Now his palms dig into the soil, earth in fingernails
shifting the dirt, man’s flesh is moulded from, burying
this sorrowful weight, then standing as the stuttering
light of morning approaches.