Elijah is your enemy?
That finger that you point
at me should be directed
inwardly until pointer
becomes pointee,
and confounded blame
does not bump its ugly name
into those that by divine
appointment came.
Are there no grapes in Syria,
that you bring murder to Jezreel?
The potent power of Israel
plotting but to steel the humble
vineyard of Naboth, a man whose kneel
was loyal to your crown but also His
whose wrath beats down like holy hail
on heads of Pharaohs, and aims the hopeful
tips of arrows to find their noble mark;
Doubtless in the dark you thought
could crouch your kingly killing,
in pockets where justice is blind to bring
its blazing sword, but
mightily did you misjudge the Lord, Ahab,
for here His prophet stands, in blood bought land,
with a tongue full of doom: look about,
sir, for this orchard will prove your tomb;
the pulse of your own royal veins
will paint this plain as if the rain
were rent from bleeding hearts of
rich red clouds, nor will they shroud
your corpse until the dogs have
had their taste, just before they make
with haste to her whose poison
sweetly drips from subtle, lying lips
like pollen from a toxic stem
that catches bees as they swim
their flower-philic laps;
for Jezebel soon will fall by the city’s
entrenched wall, and spill her sanguine sea
for all to see, a bitter wine
stomped from fruits that were never thine.
