proportions of a crucifix 

you didn't grow up catholic
if you didn't think that maybe
the adults gathered at night
& sometimes chose someone new
to crucify. i would check my own hands
& my father's for stigmata or scars.
i was fascinated by the gore. 
once, when no one else was home,
took the crucifix down
from above the living room
& traced the tributaries 
of jesus's blood. the gash on his side.
tiny gems of blood forming
a second halo. wondered if salvation
was something i should be able
to feel. almost like a wound.
every year i was the altar boy
for the stations of the cross 
at our church. it was the only time 
i was really interested in god. 
his head was always too big
on the crosses we had. i held one.
a hot air balloon. tears. the weight in my arms.
his hands contorted like pinned spiders.
the heft little queer not-boys bear. 
candles. incense. 
i am not that enticed 
by the question "why would god
sacrifice his only son?" i know
what a father is. i know what it means
to be a gender. to always fall short.
i am however drawn to blood.
this is the one thing i take away
from being catholic. the blood.
the milk. the body. how the cross is
always too big for jesus 
or always too small. it is as if
he is trying to fit into a mythology
or a mythology is trying
to fit into him & i know 
exactly what that feels like.
i really did think that. that maybe
the adults got together
& sometimes selected a new god.
tied them down to planks
of wood maybe out behind
the rectory. i always wondered
if this was an honor or a curse.
i feared at every gathering
a ritual like this might begin. 
planned several escapes. a dash 
into the cornfield. hiding beneath
the blue station wagon. 
a queer not-boy trying to out run
the blood that would come from being a son.