They must have bled as they sang，
the needles so quick through
the linen， the frayed mesh，
the silvers must have stung them.
Pinpricks they must have stemmed
with their tongues， unembarrassed，
these brides of Christ
like sewing patches of sunlight
to water the ghost in the cloth
laid double across their laps.
These are the hips of Christ，
knees raw bone inking the linen；
this， the stain of a coin
that graced His eye， the image
as yet unpatterned， available only
should they dare to look
in random angles， stitches.
Terrible gash at a medial rib.
Imprint： sole of His foot，
the other merely heel， curve of
a branch at its one end blackened，
released to ash their
fingers as furious as sparks
in the medieval dusk
repairing a fire . . . They must have
wept as they bled as they sang.