you know better than any
what it is to taste death
to feel the dull pulsing, side-pinned,
spiky memories stitching into your brain.
When water from under your heart
bathed the world,
you irrigated too the planted cross,
that it might take root, and, in us,
Yet I resist its rooting in,
and strive to strip it bare in me,
when it is I who should be naked
I obviously have not died enough.
So: overturn me,
stretch me on your frame,
and, for your name, teach me
that I might know love through death.