palm sunday

i don't have a palm
to wave
my voice is hoarse
from wasted
hosannas

i showed up
for the
procession too
early
i stood by the side
of the road
shouting my
anticipation

i brought out
the others
lined them up
passed out fronds
led the chants

i was the publicist
promotor
cheerleader
stanning you
and your false
hope

i don't have a palm
to wave
because when i said
save me
you
were too far away
and I can't wait
another
33 years
through diagnoses
and pandemics
and tornadoes
and disappointment
and trauma
and death

my voice and body
are too
weakened
to stand at the gates
and wait

and the temple
no longer
wants me
self righteousness
and nationalism
drove me out of their courts 

and i can't find fruit from
the fig tree
and i'm hungry
and i don't think you understand

i am weeping at the gates
and now you decide
to show up
did you follow me here
i don't have any palms
for you
just questions and
anger

but you hand me
a branch
from the fig tree
you withered
and a coin
from the table you turned
and we sit in silence
until you say
hope does not
come with hosannas
and peace
does not come
with
procession
but with
wailing
and withering
and whipping
and a lot
a lot
of waiting