crucifixation ~ 1998
Sweet Jesus
and aren't you, cherub-lipped
and wiry like a sixteenth-century
fresco; crucified and slim-hipped
and as peaceful
as they painted him, wrists bound
in gilded modern thorn.
A laughing serenity is born
on your back
and in an instance of absolute surrender.
Bartender,
I could have a double of this one,
child-like face made
to be framed by mosaic halo
of gilt sun and worn stone.
The spark behind the placid orb,
the angelic curve of nose, the
smooth-skinned chest and quiet sigh:
I am a sucker for the feast my eye might sup
upon. Bottoms up:
a toast for every bit the Hanged Man
who'd pour wine into my cup.
Forgive me father,
for I have pinned
a seraphim to my wall. I confess:
I've a bit of a weakness
for angels who love to fall.
Perhaps I've more of the devil in me
than I thought after all.
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