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.