THE RAISING
Ropes stretch and groan
Men strain and grunt
The joint, where patibulum and stipe meet, creaks mournfully
My cross shudders and begins to move
Slowly at first,
as if the earth refuses to let go,
and then with increasing speed,
the angle grows
I begin to slide,
chafing the raw skin on my back,
torn and abraded earlier
by the merciless lash
Pulled down by gravity,
I continue to slide
My arms extend upward;
my knees forced to flex and bend
Looking left and then right
I see other crosses,
standing already upright,
swing stealthily into view
Each of them bearing,
like trees in an orchard,
a harvest of suffering human fruit,
hanging ripe and exposed
Looking down,
I see the base of my stipe,
hover momentarily above
a freshly dug hole
Seconds later, my stipe
strikes bottom with a violent jolt
that judders the timber,
and its naked, screaming cargo
Thrown forward by momentum,
my arms are ripped back
My back arcs to its limits,
before flopping weakly back
My head cracks against the stipe,
my tailbone slaps home,
my bare breasts wobble and shake,
while my thigh muscles quake
I have been raised,
the cruel crucifying process completed,
I now have only to
dance and sway listlessly
To rise and fall
on unsteady cramped legs,
To battle for breath,
and yearn for eternal rest
Barbaria, 2014
