Jace Elson, Execution of a Traitor

Execution of a Traitor Jace Elson

my executioner stands before me, sword in hand-- not raised, not yet-the flames warping the tarmac they stand on.

heaven was not supposed to reach me, not in a dead-end town a dead-end state a runaway country. but

my wife requested the apples in the plastic bags my trembling hands clutch.

am I shaking from fear or age? my therapist would say that

they’re the same thing. signs of survival. signs of strength.

(she tells me saving myself is enough. I don’t know how to say my name meant God’s wrath, once.) “what is it like to be human?” they ask, sword in hand-- raised, now, shielding their face.

this I know how to say.

“when I can’t sleep, I trace constellations over the freckles on my wife’s spine.

I taste hymns in her-her too-strong coffee, her too-weak bones.

she needs a cane, now, and she still believes I don’t remember you.

not everything needs to be something god can understand.”

my death stands before me, sword in hand-- swinging, now-and I keep my eyes open.