A Crucifixion Poem, for Lent

 

Some small thing, a thread of sweat on a forehead, hidden by

cursive ashen hair—these we know.

An X there, over and over our brow as water

runs and his neck drops

And she considers the works of the hands

of the Psalmist, a creator. And he considers

The work of a man, of the atoms of the sacrifice, the

palms of the Second Adam, waved.

 

And there is no limit to fields and the number of them,

even unified, a weaved rug– or cross stitch–

Carpeting the viewing room, is one, is thousands, is

fingerprinted and oiled as though waiting

For some calm, brown locks to fall flat on a head, for the

pores to sweat no more water,

And in animal, in form, in being, there is perfection

temporarily and not understood, tented in

 

A derma, over an endoskeleton, pierced as it is,

swollen and moled and thickly dusted as it is.

We know at least, while the curl rests and the hands have

been cut, there’s life in them.