pillory

Her crimson frills thrashed and slashed
through the dull milk predawn glow.
My bodice pinched and itched and I
yanked her fragile alabaster wrist.

Mother, she said, mother, will he
come? and I yanked her again for silence.
My bonnet knotted beneath my flagging chin
rubbed and blistered and I thumbed

it untied. A wound whipped open
in the sky. It bled that dreaded letter
and my mouth swallowed all the air
that stilled around us. It was not a scream

but I wish it had been. The blacksmith
across the square put out his fire
and all the town was black. Three
bloody cuts spilled red upon the stars

and then there were no stars.
Just the dusky violet black
and the bloody violent splash
carved into the flesh of night.

She pointed
but I smacked her tiny mouth
before she could say it
and rosebuds bloomed her lips.

And there he was
stumbling toward us in the dust.
Father, she said, father,
you’re bleeding father.

But he could not hear her yet.
His face was cold wax glossed with sweat
and his pearl buttons glinted
like smiles down his open blouse.

He tilted up his chin
lined it with where the moon had been.
Was it a grimace or a grin?
And then I saw it.

The dust caked
the drops that had fallen to his boots.
It dribbled over the brass buckle of his belt.
His ruffled shirt rusted and red.

I beg the balm of the moon to spill
on our ripped and ragged skins.
And if Christ went to His Father
with his body scarred and scarlet

then so shall we, us three.