A Poem of Lament in the wake of the Club Q Shooting
Christ was Crucified at Club Q,
Nailed on Caesar's cross of hollow points and permits.
Mary wept on the dance floor,
Divinity's blood mixed with glitter and gin.
The Veil? Torn behind the taps.
God’s holy of holies, defiled by hatred and fear.
And Thomas doubted behind overturned tables,
Plugging the holes of queer friends in dying disbelief.
But Peter and John ran.
They ran in Colorado Springs, Calling for help, crying in agony to all who would listen.
Christ was crucified at Club Q,
Alongside martyrs of modern, joined with the Saint’s Collective.
Five martyrs who will never walk the earth again, never hug their mother, never touch their lover, never pray to God or Christ or friend.
Five martyrs, crucified on a hill of hate, built by the NRA, molded by Fox News, certified by Trump, anointed by the Empire of Anti-Queer Rhetoric.
Five Martyrs, traded for the silver of supremacy and taken for the tokens of terrorism.
Five Martyrs: Raymond Grenne. Kelly Loving. Daniel Aston. Derrick Rump. Ashley Paugh.
Christ was crucified at Club Q, executed at the Pulse Nightclub, betrayed at the UpStairs Lounge, crowned at the San Francisco City Hall, berated in the fields of Laramie, and forgotten in the newspapers of every city that has swept a hate crime under the rug
Another Five Martyrs. Another Five who shall not glimpse Easter's dawn, whose tomb door will not roll, whose body shall not rise again.
So we must rise instead.
Arise in protest.
Arise in anger.
Arise In your pulpits and pews and schools.
Arise in your legislating chambers. Arise in your capitals. Take to the street and arise.
Arise.
Arise.
For if Christ was crucified at Club Q,
Then any one of us could be too…