ripped away, caught again,

between the teeth of chance;

the world’s blind hand points at me 

and blames me for—                        (the blood on the carpet)

crimes I did not commit

a goat on the table, sliced 

open chest, tangled wool

a sponge that soaks up the blood 

of those who accepted instead of fought.

a recurring theme

punished for being fair. 

punished for being honest. 

punished for accepting the punishment.

born to suffer the weight of those 

who run away with their hands full, 

who scatter the evidence at my feet,

who leave my name at the cross.

the world gifts me with rage, rotten apple 

pungent stench of wrong, a cell of thought

I learn that I am thrown under, 

proclaimed the villain— 

but with no savior to grant my salvation. 

the voice doesn’t sound like my own

heart out in the open air, beating, asking— 

where is the blood from? 

                                         from killing?

(from crawling out.)

the noise presents me at the altar and burns 

my body, along with my name

a pearl, a dagger, a proof of virtue 

they preach me unholy, announce me 

as the enemy, run when I remain 

whole, shed skin.

now the serpent, the spilled chalice 

the hymn of cry, slithers up the pinnacle

where I am untouched

                     where I am heard. 

close to heaven

                     close to justice. 

at the summit, the view is isolating. I watch 

as the bodies of those who drowned me 

curve the snow like lost anchors.

I look at my hands

             they are clean.

The Burning of the Lamb

2024

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© Rizu Lu

All Rights Reserved.