At the foot of the cross at Golgatha,
she weeps at the feet of her son.
Her eyes move from his ankles
to his knees—he was a man, she
thought to herself, flesh and bone
—to his bloody side, to his chin,
his mouth, his nose, his glistening
eyes, eyes she would see every
night as she looks to the heavens
and at the stars, moth holes in the
fabric of the universe, a reminder
that we do not need to draw back
the shroud or roll away the stone
to know He lives.
Benjamin D. Carson lives with his dog Dora on the South Shore of Massachusetts. His creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in Red Fez, The Ampersand Review, Cactus Heart, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, The Boston Small Press and Poetry Scene blog, The Somerville Times, Poetry24, Free Inquiry, Oddball Magazine, Poetry Leaves, The Poetry Porch, I am not a silent poet, Not Your Mother’s Breast Milk, Gyroscope, and The Charles River Journal.