Abel Folger Miami (Lúcia Leão)
Lazarus, Lazarus, frail Lazarus, entombed and forgotten
to the musky cold of Israelite cave.
Green-skinned Lazarus, sweet friend absconded and risen again
—the original comeback kid--
more return from the fists than modern pugilists.
You’d never squander wealth,
get your prick diseased, pug Lazarus, the four-day boy;
no, you lived too concerned
for lonely Mary and Martha and the wandering eyes of friends.
Southpaw Lazarus, lovable Lazarus,
you never took to their trusting friendship in Jesus
during those troubled Aramaic times.
Good son Lazarus, always on guard, the sickness took you by surprise,
divinely deliberate and fast;
an up-and-comer’s lightning one-two, no rest and one-two again--
never gave you a chance
to counter, parry, work the damn ropes, whittle down their stamina.
He took his time,
though they begged and begged; doubting Lazarus, human Lazarus,
body taut and cold,
your sneaking suspicions that the special friend had more
than parables to feed the girls;
barbaric retribution into the bonds of slavery through reanimation.
Patient Lazarus, calculating Lazarus;
take your time, your kin come first, walk the ring, circle in--
as the new day’s light hits your eyes
you think through the jab’s haze, believe and never die he said?
Shit, I think I’ll punch him first.