el cristo de cangas
it is finished
he carved you famously
crying with you as
he cut into your
(into his)
folds of pain
as they did
catching along the tendrils of his skin
(which was his and others
also)
something of that weight beyond the word
his knife in his mortality still bore
singing in the empty ear
rarest blood like thunder
(and then among the face to face of this
seeing perpetual horror till the end of days he
backed away into his anonymity
leaving you there
defying heraclitus in the dark)
o they have prisoned you
above their alter
holding you up with prayers and
candles consubstantial with the
sunless air
where broken shards of colours
mingle with the crimson drops
and stain your feet at noon
you have been torn upon the dark
and written in the book of death
a book about a faith which
tests us all being so slain
your mystery is art
in corpore deum
he whose agonising and
unghostly absence leaves youas they did
in the death of sacrifice
thousands upon
thousandsfold
at least the memory is
a resurrection i suppose
of sorts