Time Travel Jesus
I've been writing new poetry and sending it to literary journals, who cheerfully send me rejection letters in turn. Sometimes I feel like we're caught in a codependent relationship. Some of the letters, even though they're form letters, are quite kind. You can tell they're written by editors who themselves have received rejection letters.
But one difficult thing for me is that most literary journals will not accept work that has already been shared, even on a blog or social media. I don't know if it's ego or inspiration, but I feel like my poems want to be shared right away. I write them and they're ready to go out into the world. So it's hard for me to write a poem I like and sit on it, or send it to a beleaguered editor who already has hundreds of poems on her desk.
Anyway, this poem is one I wrote this summer that received a rejection. I ought to be sending it to another journal, building up my publication credits and advancing my chances of winning literary prizes. But, well, you read it and see. It's not a slush pile poem. It wants to be read, now. It's chomping at the bit. So here you go.
Time Travel Jesus
Jessica Kantrowitz
I take him from a lakeside breakfast with his friends
Freshly risen from the dead, still shell-shocked
A chick with eggshells clinging to damp feathers
Drag him into the time machine
(Don’t ask me to explain — this is a poem)
Then, with both of us slightly seasick from the journey
I wave my hand around, gesturing at 2026 dramatically,
Demanding a reaction.
Jesus spins slowly on his heels, taking it all in.
We have a bird’s eye view of everything —
Wars and rumors of wars,
Trolls and chatbots.
“Look at this mess,” I say,
“The horrors that are condoned and committed in your name.
“It’s blasphemy, right? What do you say?
“What would you do if you were our President?”
“But Jessica,” he says, frowning
As if one of us was a bit confused,
“That is not the right question.
I’ll never be president, and neither will you.
But every person ever born was the Messiah.
Every one of us must try to save our people,
And these are yours, and you theirs.”
Then Jesus rises in the air —
To heaven, or to outer space, maybe
Or back to the quiet shore with John and Peter, who can tell?
And I’m left writing in my notes app
While I watch MSNBC.
Some Messiah I am. Some savior.
Some poet. Some friend.
