Souvenirs

I wonder if He keeps
the wood around his neck,
splintered and red, pried
from the tree He died on,
like we do.

Does He keep mementos
of His moment in death,
pulling them out of a
splintered box each week,
like we do?

Perhaps it doesn’t
bug Him, like spots on a
mirror He keeps close.
Or does it remain like a
hurricane on a spindle,
turning slowly, once and always?

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