Every year those who relish a particular taste
pry open this wound using blunt instruments
such as a butter knife or a spoon.
Nothing surgical, for they want the mess
to be visible to everyone. See how it hurts.
It is a strange wound felt
deeply by all who saw its birth
televised. Distances conquered
by grief via satellite.
I remember that disbelief,
texture of leather
in the back of my throat.
Then just as quickly came the fear
of who might be blamed.
The hows and whys and whos
that led to the wound were officially declared
but never put to rest.
Repetition turned to religion.
The wound itself became reason enough
to inflict misery a thousandfold greater.
Years later we are told again
this wound alone matters.
Let nothing get in the way
of this crucifixion.
This was written in September 2008.