Sanguinis Christi

There’s blood beneath my skin which gives me life
as close to death as strips of sharpened steel–
a razor’s edge, the blade of Abram’s knife.
My faith coagulates; I cease to feel
the cuts of barbed-wire fence, the jagged tear
of rusted metal scraping through my flesh,
the nails of Romans forcing me to bear
the intersecting cross of life and death.
It’s warm for just a moment as it seeps
into the world of degradation; shame
enlightens every second as it creeps
toward some inconsequential, holy blame.
There is no cup, no chalice you can drink
to pull you back from life’s eternal brink.

Leave a Reply