His Shroud on the Mountains

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary po

His shroud, the mountain mist, is white as he

In glory by the Throne of God.  Below,

Beside the crossroads, passersby can see

Him high and lifted up.  Where widows go

In toothless black, they barely notice him,

Aloft in gilded, guiltless glory, gold

His painlessness while waiting for a hymn.

Unlike the widows he is never old.

He slumps there always masculine and young,

And tortured like the bulk of young men by

Society’s presumptions.  He is hung

Up on his cross.  They hardly get a sigh.

  He almost never has their armpit hair,

    But they are nailed in machoness’s snare.