a poem by Emily Cabey
So simply placed to call this art. Branches
dead, and glued, and shorn and tied briskly. But
they tied Him too. They beat and cut and kicked and pierced
and nailed His palms
to a tree, O forest before me of dead
wood, wrapped and coiled branches.
You too are art. A window through which to see
Sticks on a wall,
God on a tree.