The Cross

Beneath a tree
hacked roughly
into planks,
a rain of blood,
a salt of tears
soaks my upturned face,
flows down my chest,
my legs

and gathers in a pool,
thick, black
with my pain
now washed away.

Not His blood,
hers, above -- she,
lashed and spiked
through wood,

pouring life
upon my newborn
head.

Scott Speck
05/12/2000