Crux
Patrick Miller
Jesus is elegant, dull silver
and his cross an inordinate,
The nails holding his hands to the bar
C
are smears of molten,
not nearly worthy
of puncturing his sacred palms,
but his left hand is a peace sign prototype,
and his right one opened, out.
His crown of thorns is more a halo of steel,
tilted, reposed, weighted;
above it a few spaces it says inri,
but my mother left it on the dresser.
So he lies face up, eyes closed,
counting down the seconds until oblivion
[4]