According to the book, angels laughed
to see the contortions of the damned in hell.
Easy to forget, maybe, without gall, or grief,
or heave. There is the idea, for instance, that
what marks us inscribes in turn what we touch.
Judas’ kiss. In one legend, he meets his end in a field,
falls headlong, nose in dirt, and spills open, hollowed out
by shame. In the other version, impelled—pressed,
pushed—by an undead question, he hangs himself
from a redbud tree, the flowers seared bright for all time
by that unburdened urge, his vandal weight. Xenogenesis.
Wilt, canker. Yoked to wasp and wrack and zero,
without burning.