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Father was always building something
so there was plenty of wood around.
It was school holidays.
My brother and I had watched
a Jesus movie one Sunday,
a chisel-jawed American playing
the Technicolor King.
Monday morning we slid some hardwood
from the stack. Nails from the peach tin.
Dad would have dug a dovetail
where the timbers crossed, but
we hadn't learnt that yet. A tight bind
of clothesline wire sufficed.
Not the squarest crucifix, but good enough
to drag along the drive.
Talk about the Passion
Talk about the Passion
Talk about the Passion
Of course I was Jesus, being the eldest.
My brother with a claw hammer,
quite giant in his hand, whipping me
with a branch of eucalyptus.
I loved the way the movies trick us.
This is how they trick us:
Strip the actor's robe. Cut through close ups.
Here come the close ups:
iron nail positioned in the palm
upswing of the Roman arm
the tearful crowd, the hammer's
downward thrust. The wincing face
of the One and Only Son. My brother
had less appreciation
for the artform of montage.
That dent in my lifeline,
passed round every Christmas lunch.
Talk about the Passion
Talk about the Passion
Talk about the Passion
