Jesus Shopping for the Apocalypse
By Lincoln Jaques
Every morning, getting off the 243
I see Him sitting, sewing a new pattern
of silence into the skyline. Hair tangled
up in hawthorn, sandals stained in blood.
I catch him, lunchtimes, in the 7-Eleven,
aisle 5, junk food. It’s what He loves;
moving with a limp, quietly, in case
He disturbs the cockroaches in aisle 4,
hiding under the stuffed olives past expiry date.
I’m loading up every day. Ready for
the apocalypse. Ready for the sun to burst.
Waiting for the Extinction Rebels to kidnap
the corporates. I move gently too, so as not
to disturb the cockroaches.
We have the same tastes: sour cream
and chive chips, mallow-puffs; I’m
stocking up on tins, on jars past expiry,
for soon I’m going into hiding, with the
cockroaches. But we’ll miss Him;
the streets will empty out, the waters will
come. Afterwards I’ll find pieces of Him
running in the cracks of the tarmac.