Simon Called Peter

And you who thrice denied me, the cock crowed my glory,
and wept bitter tears of coffee grounds at your realization
that I am King of Kings, ever-faithful Simon Peter, I let you
touch the sacred holes in my hands because those are the gates
to infinity, and you are the Rock, the Sapha, of my Church, and
when you took those newborn steps out into the water, so brave to
venture out onto the raging seas to meet your Lord, you began to
sink and flail, for what man in his right mind walks on water?
You reached out a desperate hand and I lifted you up onto the
silky bower of the Stella Maris, it is because you are most human
and humble of my apostles, witness to Transfiguration and Pentecost
that I have chosen you as first Pope, you who would question with
right mind and little reliance on my word my place in the cosmos –
you are wit unbounded, and when proven my divinity and sanctity,
you fell to the desert floor weeping, knowing you would lose me,
and look at the marvels you have built for me, oh cornerstone of
the earthly Temple! A line undivided of Papal creed, some holy,
some human like Simon, some ascended and wise like Peter, some
believers as crucial to the Church as the Sapha, and when you
were crucified earth-turnt in Rome hanging suspended, my spirit
came and wiped the bitter tears and bruises and blood and dirt
from your cheek, whispered “Your purpose is done, my martyr,”
lifted you to Heaven and gave you the silver keys to the gates
of Paradise, you of clinking key and first to greet souls on
the narrow path to salvation, but in truth you open the gates
to the loving of all creeds or no creed at all, for we care not
whether Christian or Hindu or Jew or Muslim or Atheist or Pagan,
if a soul care visits the seven heavens and they are as true
of heart as you, they may enter as they will, and leave in peace.
Look at this beauteous kingdom we have built in the Afterlife,
oh Peter, the mountains of silver ice and rivers of garnets and
rough emeralds, sands on beaches of white gold, manta rays and
clownfish swimming in bright delight, sometimes we walk on water
just for fun, skimming the froth of Heaven’s aqua vitae so that
our toes are chill to the touch, wet with relief at knowing, our
creed in that small town of Galilee lived on, our life’s work has
become legend, and it is pinned on the nails through your hands
and feet the sacrifice of the martyrs, the immortality of the
Church, you doubted, you repented, you believed, oh Yael. Israel
awaits the day I walk with my sword and you with your locks. Soon,
my beloved, bosom apostle, brother amongst brothers, we rise again.