Into the rood wood, where the grain's current splits

around the stones of its knots, carve eyelashes and eyelids.

Dye the knots, too—indigo, ink-black, vermillion

irises. These will be his eyes, always open, willing

themselves not to close when dust rises or sweat falls,

eyes witnessing, dimly, the eclipse that shawls

the shuddering hill, Jerusalem's naked shoulder.

The body itself? From a wick that still whiff s of smolder,

wax, because wax sloughs a smooth skein on the fingers just

below sensation's threshold. Prop the cross

upright and let the tear-hot wax trickle, slow, clot, taper

into a torso, thighs, calves, feet. Of Gideon Bible paper,

thinner than skin, cut him his scrap of cloth; embed

iron shavings in his forehead,

and, as the wax cools, scrape the rust off an old fuel can

to salt the whole wound that is the man.

Cry, if you feel like crying, and if no one else is there.

Then set it on the counter with your other wares.