XII: Ecce Homo
1
we are born together,
born brothers;
reach out to me,
your hands
from sorrow’s seed-lot.
none risen from the stone
none risen from lost hours
none risen croaking like rocks
none risen blind, their own fingers
for eye sockets
eye to eye with me
on flat desert stones —
the farmhand, the weaver:
the mute herdsman:
tamer of the overseer llama:
thatcher of the Watchman’s hut:
precarious brick-layer:
aqueduct of mountain tears:
worn-fingered jeweler:
farmer shaking out seeds:
centrifugal potter
scattering his clay:
2
we are here,
we have climbed up
to redeem your sorrows,
to plant new life.
lead me to the bloody
furrow, show me where
you were beaten
because the earth
would not give up
its diamonds, elaborate
tiles, or its corn.
scratch the spot
where you crawled,
tear a splinter from your cross,
make a spark
to light the old lamps,
pull out
the flinders of bullwhip
festering under your skin,
the axe-blade dulled
with dried blood.
teach me your dead
utterances, to speak
through your dried lips.
bring all the lips
together, a chorus
in my hear, hold my ear
to the stones.
tell it all to me,
each and every chain
each welded link.
be thorough, painstaking
when you sharpen knives
under your pillows
stab me here,
and here, and here!
make a river of blinding light
wild cats hiding
beneath the surface
and leave me to wail,
sob for all time,
through unseeing eons,
centuries in the
numbers of the stars.
give me silence,
draw me water,
make me hope.
give me warfare,
sharp steel,
make volcanoes.
glue yourselves
to me
top to bottom
enter my blood,
come in my veins,
in my mouth.
use my words,
use my stones,
use my blood.
  
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