a poem for Good Friday

Cross, Holy Week
by Luci Shaw

On my chest this Friday afternoon,
the elegant small signature
of violent death
swings on my neck as I walk,
gold tapping my deep heart,
telling me I was there.
(I did not mean to do it; I did
not know.)  I slump under
the weight of it; my pulse
echoes the beat of hammers.

necklace

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