The Lingering Wound • poems by Simon Anton Niño Diego Baena

Golgotha

The blood, heavy, like an ancient pillar.
And here, New York is quiet in April

as the man stumbles in the dark
to find the light. But it’s always been

there. Clear as a denuded mountain.
I remember grandma kept fidgeting

the rosary with her pruney fingers.
Christ was crucified in the morning

and expired in the afternoon. Pigeons
proclaimed the event with coos.

The exact time the smell of freshly baked bread
and aroma of coffee pulls you in for a feast.

When the dead often has excuses.