We blamed ourselves, of course,

the other eleven. Wasn’t it our fault?

Matthew should have been the keeper

of the purse, but no one liked Matthew,

so they made Judas do it because he was

the new guy. And soon no one liked him either.

We never seemed to have enough

money, and who else could we blame?

Not to his face, of course, though sometimes

an eye was rolled, a question left to hang

in the heavy air.

We didn’t know about the family he’d left

to join us. No one knew his mother’s name.

Or where his sister lived. We had to

piece it together from scraps of conversations, friends

of friends. Turns out he had a wife

and a little girl, too. Why had he never mentioned them?

Why had we never asked? Everyone

had been so preoccupied

with their own sacrifices, the pasts

we were trying so desperately to dress up

or hide. No one had felt worthy—no one

except John—and he was a pretentious—

well, you know—who distanced himself

from Judas early on, and that had been all 

the permission we needed.

Some thought it was inevitable. Wasn’t he always 

walking around in a funk? Bad mind, 

someone called it. And he had it 

the worst. Of course, no one thought

much of it at the time. But after what he did—

better a murder-suicide than just a murder, right?

That’s what some said, anyway. Or at least

they thought it. Maybe the devil made him

do it, someone said, and it gave everyone pause.

Others, enablers and minimizers, tried to give him

the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just

trying to provoke the rabbi to action. Hadn’t we all

been frustrated with the direction 

things seemed to be headed? Everyone 

had been so tired, and snippy. Everyone, 

at one time or another, thought they had

a better idea. If only he had just 

stuck around, surely he too

would have been forgiven, found his way back

under the wing, in spite of everything.

Someone heard he tried

to give the money back. Why 

did we let him just disappear? 

A few said maybe it just an accident.

Sometimes these things happen, 

they said, and there’s nothing

anyone could have done. But no one

really believed this, no one

who knew him, even though we all longed 

to be let off the hook. They say Mary

goes every year to the field

where they found him—those kids,

messing around where they had no business—

God, say a prayer for those kids—

they say Mary goes there every year 

a few days after Easter, with some nard 

and some wildflower seeds, and sometimes 

one of us will go with her, but mostly

she goes alone. And the rest of us

just keep going over and over every—

wondering what it was we

could have—should

have done for him—with

him—I mean, you—

us