an arrow quivering between his eyes, cried out:
"Accursed one. You will murder your mother
and your father."
Shaken, trembling a little he fled, traveled far.
Such a curse was not
to
be taken lightly
even by an assassin
though for a time slaughter was human: a needful
expediant
to
fulfill the promise of kingship,
and long enough
for the old blood-craze
to
stain the way into
the last prophecy: one of those bedroom spasms
of domestic confusion.
From pink-nosed mouse
to
murder of mother
and father, a tapestry of death strewn in between,
was far enough
in depravity
to
announce not royal grandeur
but time for heavenly judgment. He reversed
the situation
by dressing for holiness. Ah, it is too bad, Flaubert,
even in deadpan irony, that you should speak
of penitence,
lampoon the cowl. And you, Julien, your travesty
of grace-another prideful posture, though bloodless
th is time;
or more truly a ploy-your show of tears, your
eyes revulsed, your sores your filth your empty
begging bowl.
Warm the leper. Embrace him, mouth to mouth.
Now reveal the deal, the plea bargain you made
with God.
