Suspended,
he follows me
Around
the market
With
his red eyes.
His
palms are bleeding,
Dripping
in a numb rhythm to the parched silt.
He
is held up by the cross, a bowed body with bare, distended belly,
Streaked
with dirt and blood and hungry fingerprints.
He
says nothing.
I
do not know
If
he is an offering
Or
a warning,
But
his circlet of thorns,
Bramble
or rose,
Has
fallen to the earth
Below
the sinew and bone
That
hangs, full weight on the cross,
Nailed like a snake to a
door.
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