On the Cross

The penitents scratch
like pigeons for a lump of God
while you bored with faith
loiter in your handbag,
count redemption on your beads
One peg for each small thought,
each thought an envelope of suffering
Mother, your matchstick girls
are restless. We flop like fish
on the cutting board. Not even
this house of thumbing tongues
can still us. The universe has opened
its bright red mouth, but only the dogs
are watching. Did jesus know the price
of nails?

Camelot Home

In bed
under the sheets at Camelot Home
the old woman kneads her womb
Urging the blue dimpled skin,
gathering it in ripples
she thrusts her hips
beneath the push of her hands
A yawning lover is gone
this new one is found
to take his place inside the tent
The skin bag quickens to her fingers
as she remembers
how the children came
First one, then another
Bursting into life from the sack.
Empty then
not as empty is now—hollow.
Fallen into a place where the day it is
becomes forever the day it will be
Always Sunday. Always barren

-- Nan Byrne