Another Cave Allegory

Some change is disorienting,

destabilizing. Like stretching in the green light

among the trees one moment,

perhaps casting a longing look

at a lover before languidly allowing

your lids to float down over your eyes,

drowsing into brief, contented slumber,

like some long-lost dream,

opening them into danger, to be hastened into a cave

to wait, presumably until

it’s safe to emerge.

Waiting patiently in the dark

for hours, days, weeks,

months, reading the walls

in Braille with your fingers.

A shadow falls through

the mouth of the cave,

and a stranger

uses your lover’s voice

when he hands you a cross,

and says he might be back

in a minute

to crucify you,

but probably not.

Never forget: before the cross

could become a symbol of salvation,

it had to be an instrument of death.

Don’t criticize me for not wearing a gold one

around my neck.

The wooden one on my back

will suffice for the right judge.