Continuing the religious theme, as it were,
the next poem is called "Crucifixion."
And it was written to commemorate--
this is sort of heavy, but I hope you don't mind--
it was written to commemorate an execution
method used in the Sudan, where I lived for a short while.
They've endured 40 years of unpublicized civil war.
I think it's as brutal as Bosnia,
but, you know, it just doesn't have any press.
"Crucifixion."
"It's nonfiction, a newspaper's open and shut.
But make that "suffocation".
It's more genteel, the way the limbs fail the lungs.
You want to read a hill full of crosses,
but Khartoum has no hills.
It's flat desert.
And it's not nails for the hands and feet, it's staples.
Big staples.
People prefer the touch of technology.
Besides, you have to be angry to pound, or have a lot of energy.
Who in this heat?
They're all just criminals anyway, or political prisoners,
Shell employees.
There's something about post hole digger working a cross
into place, and the cross recycled, the wood old blood
sticky, sandy, the flies.
Only occasionally did they attach a foot rest
to make it last longer.
Only occasionally do they cut them down and put them up
the next day.
Only occasionally are there no birds.
Pollution is catching up though.
Soon, no scarlet-tailed hawk or owl with tinfoil claws.
But who believes this?"