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.