by Jonathan Hartt
His palms are
everywhere.
Who hung
these cadavers
on the walls?
I never called for piercing
every
Sabbath.
Behind my
eyes
this vaulted
dome is crowded.
A pair of
fat-limbed cherubs
crouch above
the killing scene,
dwarf wings
open
in a tender
balancing.
Meanwhile,
marble-toed James and John
weep beside
their gilded columns:
one stoops to
hide his face,
the other
holds his
hands
as if
he doesn’t
get the joke.
Even as the
torn robe falls
from Mother’s
fist, I look around
and want to
say
that nothing
need be done
or said
or sung for
this man
with failing
arms.
That may be
velvet,
but God
forbid we celebrate.