by Kate Nezelek
A friend once told me
about the time his neighbors crucified
a squirrel in their backyard. How it chirped
when the nails went in.
Imagine if they got their hands on you,
Your otherness, all that soft clean saccharine.
Imagine if they did it right there on the chapel steps: pretty
as a lamb, innocent as Isaac. They could draw
their switchblades and make a slit
in your side and you would know right then
He’s not going to save you.
Wild Messiah, they could take you inside
and hang you up next to the real deal.
It would be so divine. It would be just like a story
the book forgot. Flesh and figurine.
Blood and blood, close enough to touch.
