Holy Jesus

I 

 

Kneeling in Williams lane  

scraping for the scarred vein  

to suck the bloody needle  

of its black tar heroin,  

 

up then you clotted skin and bone 

stagger howling onto Abbey Street 

bagged in compressed rags and muck  

your bladed grim face grunting 

wordless cursing words— 

 

where then am I when I say  

there but for the grace of God go I? 

 

II 

 

Your sepulchral stare gaping  

through my eyes remembering  

when I fed you sliced charity  

on stale bread fifty years  

before, you sang I’m in paradise 

slugging melted boot polish  

the addicts’ cheapest wine 

 

you bottled crack on Henry Street 

where once you were a child  

spun in dreams to fanciful illusions 

emptying into a mold of lies 

 

the war on drugs war on crime 

holy Jesus; my sister brother 

governments keep on telling us 

we’re winning wars all the time—  

 

III 

 

in a bleeding wind crossing a city street  

we’re briefly lit by our sorrowful being 

and all the muttering in that cold isolation  

there but for the grace of God go I is seen. 

Traolach Mac Chu Mhara