It’s not written in the book and may just be my own vision / but perhaps every week or ten days until the end / his mother came and washed his tunic, / mended the small tears, / made Jesus wear an old, very soft, shift of his late father’s / while his tunic dried
On the day that hate rode into town /
We visited our neighbor in her new home /
She is over 90 years old
Mary spins and the thread twists / at just the right moment. / The tension tight, she winds it / on the shaft and then smoothly presses another bit of wool, / pinches the thread, sees it wind into true.
The cold stone walls, their slime, the hard floor, the rags of rags.Way up high, a grate and sometimes a ray of sunlightor a breath of wind. His skin red and rough and raw.He knew there was no healing. Not this time. He dreams first of the desert, its cold nights,burning sand in bright day,…
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