A Saudi poet wrote a poem directly to Mohammed
recently and landed in prison. I hope I don’t land
in prison, Jesus, but here’s one to you.
I don’t think you would want me to fall on my face
before you and grasp for the tassels adorning the fringe
of your robe or rub your feet with precious oil from a
broken alabaster jar after brushing the dust from
your well-worn sandals.
I don’t think you would want me to attend your
every need as you recline around the dinner table
or hang on your every word spoken around
the camp fire. All that’s been done.
I think you would want (or maybe it’s what I would
want) me to stand, look straight into your ever so
dark brown Semitic eyes with my blue Scandinavian
eyes, hold out my hand and then embrace you
strongly and tightly and then softly and warmly.
I think I would tell you what I think you would
want to tell me, that I love you.
Then I think about my friend, a connoisseur of
fine food, a sommelier, a basso baritone — Wagner’s
Dutchman and Wotan/Der Wanderer, a human
encyclopedia, a generous soul offering gifts of
dark chocolate and real French french roast coffee
and a brandy only a few had ever heard of and a wit
and sometimes a nitwit, a description we all share,
who just killed himself, Jesus, so I can’t hug him anymore.
So, I guess you will have to look into his blue Germanic
eyes with your ever so dark brown Semitic eyes, hold out
your hand to him, embrace him strongly and tightly and
softly and warmly and tell him, “I love you,” for me.