One of the photographs of Jesus I keep
in the wallet of my mind is of him
looking out over Jerusalem.
The sun is burning the last bits of blue
out of the Palestinian sky as it sets,
making room for the night.
There is enough light to see the tears
running down his cheeks as he
talks about mother hens.
The gospel accounts would have me think
that I possess a one of a kind photo,
but — after a day like today
when I’ve sat with my friends and heard
the grief harbored in their hearts,
I begin to understand
it could have been taken on any one
of the nights he walked the earth,
at most any sunset.