last night, i shivered in a dream:
me, the christ, stapled to a weathered gray cross
and from across the sable expanse of golgotha
a straw-locked barefoot ambled—his eyes hued
cobalt, white swimming around a chaliced torso,
as he sailed into the wake of the civilized.
i creased my neck to see him, through
the ornaments of death blurring on the mount.
i asked my father why his eyes shone
and his skin gleamed. why his smile stretched
to cut the winds. and i, the savior son, sagged
in blood, in sinew and spittle and ribs out of joint.
a brown, beaten Christ, rags surrendered in the fading
i wanted better for my children, but nevermind;
it is finished.