Gethsemane

“Wait and watch,” is all he asks, eyes glossy like the Sea of Galilee
before a squall. After he disappears into the moonlit night, I lean
against the thick, gnarled trunk of an olive tree, the scratch
of its bark on my back nothing to what would soon slash
the one bent in torment a few yards away. From here,
I cannot see the blood-sweat, later to be replaced
with spit and thorns, marring his pained brow
or his hands raised, offering back up the cup
of suffering meant to touch my lips. Yet
I hear his voice—intimate, desperate,
reverent. He will drink it. He must,
for though I am his rock, the fog
serpents through the garden,
droning a demonic lullaby,
and my eyes flutter. No,
how could I survive
the cross when
keeping heavy
eyes open is
far too
much
for
me?