Phantom crucifixion
By Robert Douglas
Standing in the moonlit shadow
of a Calvary-crossed clothesline,
outstretching arms to meet the beam
cast black against the pure whiteness
of a new snow in the yard.
The night is clear.
The moon, high,
bright.
The hedge looks on and, too,
the white-washed fence,
dirty from the thaw
before this last snowfall.
They stare.
I contemplate
my phantom crucifixion
on the ground before me,
my left arm’s shade pinned high,
it seems,
by ball-pen shadow;
my right,
by a pencil-nail.
The hedge looks on,
and, too, the white-washed fence.
They stare.
I yawn.
My arms heavying,
I lower them
and clip my set of rusty nails
onto my shirt pocket,
beneath my warm coat.
I walk past the hedge,
through the gate in the fence,
into a warm house
for food and drink.
After communion of toast and coffee
I recline,
contemplating once more,
my phantom death.
I recall the hedge,
and, too, the fence —
their passivity.
I shrug.
I reach for pen and paper.
But as I write,
my pain cramps my hand.
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Vol. 27
Tallahassee Writers Association
ISBN: 978-1-947536-13-5
