A Strain for Judas MacLeish

Everyone gasped in

church whenever his name

was voiced aloud,

snubbed him during

handshakes, shunned

him through their coffee.

The kids in gym

would whip him with a

rope—when the teacher’s back was

turned, told him he was hated

when the day of love

would pierce him like a

shaft, only weeks

before Good Friday—

the time he dreaded

most.

He was asked to play

the role of Benedict

Arnold,

Brutus,

even Mata Hari

when the girls would

drop their gaze

and feign the dress

would never fit them;

and though his parents

called him Judas,

digging its sui generis,

its brief, melodic

cadence,

he was loyal to the

core, give you

thirty bucks

if you were hungry,

tell you trees

bestow our breath,

our shade and

tint of fruit,

held a noose

to stay connected

to the earth,

the pulse of

what is sacred,

no need to

dangle feet

above the worms;

burst from inside-

out,

and there’s redemption

if you ask, no matter how

grievous

the sin, or appalling

appellation

he had carried like a

cross

along the halls,

our Via Dolorosas

of the damned.

Andreas Gripp

June 27, 2025

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