In the dusty museum, your people's carved gods offer the soil on their faces to scrutiny. They are poor in detail, compared to the other displays where saints and royals fan collars of lace and pantaloons of velvet, crossing paths of red brocade, their leather codpieces shining like bloodstones. If you have ever been told you are so good at suffering, you know the answer is not to fold into a double fold. You are also good at turning a pig on a spit; at tearing the glazed crackling with your teeth.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.