Visita Iglesia

From church to church
       we go to seek out the statues

of the dead Christ, exposed
       scars on the plaster flesh 

of his hands and feet, crimson
       gash on his side into which the one

seeking proof would be asked to plunge 
       his hand. What is it we kiss

when we bend our lips to the wound?
       Doubt or belief, the same sun

burning a hole through the dome of the sky
       and the sea's metallic roof 

where multiples of fish hide from our
       skillets and knives. What we clean

and gut, we throw to the cats: except
       the gills fanning out like crowns. 

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