the gospel of judas

in the bed
of an old pond
that sinks low in dry times
stands a single granite piling.

someone must know
if there was a bridge there,
or a dock. but no one’s
telling.

everyone with a clue
will be dead eventually
and it’ll be up to archeology
to tell the tale.

archeology will get it wrong.
it will be a ritual marker.
it will be a revolutionary find,
or a pampered dog’s toilet.

today it’s lonely and silent
when i drive by it. i want it
to speak to me and tell me
its name. i want to believe

it had some prosaic use: something
the common folk depended on. royalty’s toys
are uncommon here. it was surely something routine
and happy in its routine.

i drive by it
as the radio speaks of the gospel of judas —
the new found traitor’s testament to the need
to let god go. judas

was buried in clay, jesus in granite.
we’ve built a sour bridge from the lord’s tomb.
we hid judas’ word for years. we made of him a piling,
and no one is sure now what truly happened.

i want the stone
to speak to me
before we forget
who set it there.