Welcome to a market in Spain
where there’s a statue of Jesus at Easter
holding up one hand
from a thrown-cloak of red satin.
Close by – women statues - and a
carpet made of palms
where he treads in slow steps and
raises that left arm.
Everything seems new in late March:
he has a shining face,
gleaming and bright-eyed.
Around his fingers, a light touch
and I get the sense of heading into space
slowly – like in a crawl
with a bending neck; astride
his shoulders a cross, that’s all.
