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.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.