We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner


Ecce Homo

The man in the royal blue turban stands
in a glass cage. His eyes, black rimmed halos
of hazelnut and honey, are disengaged.
He waits, as closed and silent as the doors

of the Mercy Gate. What would he ask me,
shocked and awed by his dignity, as he
is pawed by latexed hands that probe for bombs
and contraband: Are you afraid? Do you

believe your life is saved by my disgrace?
He submits, as serene as Siloam,
not creating a scene, not exploding
in rage. I avert my gaze as I wait.

But his eyes seize mine as the TSA
decides he’s harmless like me. His silence
seems to gauge the peril within my soul
as I stand before him in my glass cage.


Winter's Bone

Inauthenticity can come in a variety of forms. Debra Granik’s Winter’s Bone, which she and Anne Rosellini adapted from a Daniel Woodrell novel, bends over backward to convince us that its portrait of life in an Ozarks community blighted by poverty, drugs and brutality is the documentary truth. But the picture is as phony as a three-dollar bill.