The bits of salt between loose knots along the chin,
the tiny shards of shell, the stink of wine,
the fuzz from rope.
At night, he’d take a torch in hand and walk from camp;
he'd crouch low behind a boulder and scream;
he’d lick his arms; he’d scrape his gums with rocks.
In town, he liked the butcher house where he swung me down
by cubed lamb chops and twirled my tip and asked
about the killing blade.
Jesus rocked back and forth from heel to toe, his grin
subdued but right there. He stood back against the wall.
He told patrons how to pick fish. The butcher tossed him out.
Later, Jesus gathered some stones and dropped them off a cliff.
He met his boys for lunch. He slept. He woke. He twisted me.