Anam Cara

THE CARRYING OF THE CROSS

A kiss on the back of the neck tingles,

Almost sound, a breath of music in bone.

It is here they laid the heavy crossbeam,

Each step a thud inward like sick thunder.

It invades his head. All silence leaves him.

Stooped forward he watches his innocent feet

Search each step for sure ground to take the weight.

He falls face first on the broken pavement.

Those he knows to see will not meet his eyes.

They fear his gaze might unleash misfortune.

Sweat down his back opens a line of wounds.

A white towel absorbs a mirage of his face.

Windows open in the crowd, his heart rends

At the weeping of his mother and friends.