mud puddles, a map of Palestine,

carefully framed, unfolded,

with tiny blue crossed swords

near the battles recorded

in the Holy Land, behind dirty glass,

scales in Geographical and Italian Miles,

Roman Miles, English Statute Miles,

and the rate of travelling on horseback,

3 English Miles per hour,

so I brought it home with Jesus,

woodcut, broken glass in unequal thirds,

in black, white and vivid red, Jesus awkwardly

washing eleven disciples' feet,

his halo looking too heavy,

his face frowning into

thick lines of a dark beard

as if the celebration and betrayal

were more than he could bear alone.

***********

And then by the side of the road, I saw

a shattered mirror, scattered,

showing small bits of blue sky

and the underside of birds,

coming back after winter,

so hopeful, as only birds can be.

We looked up while they coalesced and cackled,

landing in a disturbingly large number

on both sides of the house,

then flew upward as two halves became one,

disappearing, leaving a feeling of unease

although nothing and everything

changed in that moment.


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