(c) 2001-9 mykl g. sivak.

Mine is a gentile face in Judea

Blue eyes witnessing the crucifixion,
like a cigarette rolled in spearmint gum,
or tea of crabgrass and dogwood flowers.

There were fogless Sundays
in April, pools of blood upon the
cracked asphalt streets of May.

Don’t talk to me about November.
Don’t let these falling ashes touch
her lips.

We watched as spike tore driven
through West Asian wrists and ankles,
as others’ spit sweet with
honeycomb and wine smacked
against parched dying lips,

and his blood mixed with clay,
and the sun made it dry.

Christ was born on a Tuesday,
or so I've been told.