What can still bleed is not yet food.
In the ninth hour Jesus howled
and his wounds’ crusts were opened. Blood
repainted its dried trails. He felt
the scourge’s language on his back
burn for interpretation, final
insight, some empathic look
into the memoirs of the Cruel,
the Other. But none came. His face
dilated, he seemed about to laugh,
then cried again with a loud voice.
The long veil ripped itself in half.
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