The Way of the Cross #245
I grew up in Brooklyn,
our rooms hitched together
railroad style, on one floor,
life just a shout away.
——–
I was less than seven
when rheumatic fever
took my teen-aged cousin,
I have vague memories.
——–
A priest gave his parents
the coffin crucifix,
for solace I suppose.
They nailed it to the wall.
——–
My aunt and uncle’s house
country chirps and quiet.
Bedtime forced me upstairs,
to find my way alone.
———
Had to pass the Jesus
a funeral had risen.
Could not avoid his gaunt
body or naked eyes.
———
Across the hall, from where
I went to bed, should have
been my cousin’s room. Still
displayed his model planes.
———–
I feared hurting someone’s
feelings, living, dying,
or dead, if I revealed
how ill at ease I felt.
