Christ at Forty

Christ at Forty

Had the crowd asked Pontius Pilate
To crucify Barabbas instead,
Christ might have lived to see forty.
Hair beginning to thin.
A little gone at the gut.
Maybe he would have married Mary,
Settled down a bit,
Had a kid.
He still would have taught,
But maybe less vehemently,
Recycling syllabi.
He would have had things to do now,
A wife and child and aging mother
To take care of.
Maybe some nights, sitting around
After supper, the apostles would ask him
To do one of his old tricks.
They’d bring out some leftover fish
For him to multiply, pour him
Some water to turn into wine.
He’d try, then laugh, shake his head.
Later, in bed, he’d say to Mary,
“I think I’m having a midlife crisis.”
And she who, before the travail
Of labor, had cut off all her hair
And still wore it short,
Would say, “That’s good.
That means you’ll live to see eighty.”
Unable to sleep, he might have gone up
Onto the roof to call his father,
A proud grandfather now,
Who had a way of always
Making him feel better.