FULL MOON ON TOP OF A CHAMPAGNE PALM'S TIP

on good Friday
you write poems.
you did not visit
the church to see
Christ crucified

if your papa were
alive he would beat
you with the stingray's
dried tail
and your mama will
not be there to stop
him and you will hear
her cry again
that time it was
Good Friday when
you first know what
a poem is all about.
words like crosses rise
from the barren land
and blood as red as
roses flowed from those
beautiful wounds that
still refuse to heal.