4/8/77, St. Luke’s Church

This year Christ is played
by an Italian boy, arms
darkened with extract,
face shrouded by a mask,
eyes wide above
a firm jaw:
although the correct height
for the part, the boy’s
cheeks belied suffering.

Pulleys raise the crucifix:
spotlights gleam
the reds and yellows of plastic,
sixteen year-old sinews
and synthetic eyes.
Can he breathe
beneath all that rubber and heat,
castigations and hymns?

The cedar cross lowers
with the strain of a tree
pulled from roots: rope wound
over skin and wood, bound enough
to become one.