Crown of Thorns
Take the thistle, her arms and bristled chest
dressed in thorns. I’ve no desire to hug her
but to watch the horses gathering because of her
in the field as they feast on the purple blooms one by one
savoring their sweet drops carefully,
delirious to danger in their nuzzling and nibbling.
Take no caution with the cocklebur
but faithfully tend to their cheery families
that have sunk into your sweater and spend
an entire lazy afternoon removing them, buried bur
after buried bur, until you are free or they are freed
and all is forgiven and fine between you.
Take the tickseed – touched, it will tremble,
then cling, another seed born with a persistent purpose.
Their two-horned bodies wait for the living –
to descend into the fire-red fur of a fox
who knows nothing of crosses or of carrying them
or of crowns of thorns, or who has worn one.
Julie Taylor is a Chicago-based writer. Her work has appeared in the Frazee Forum, Red Weather, a Dakota Territory chapbook, Trilogy, and What Matters - Selections from 30 Years of Literary Magazines at Moorhead State. Read more.