They must have bled as they sang，

    the needles so quick through

    the linen， the frayed mesh，

    the silvers must have stung them.

    Pinpricks they must have stemmed

    with their tongues， unembarrassed，

    these brides of Christ

    like sewing patches of sunlight

    to water the ghost in the cloth

    laid double across their laps.

    These are the hips of Christ，

    knees raw bone inking the linen；

    this， the stain of a coin

    that graced His eye， the image

    as yet unpatterned， available only

    should they dare to look

    in random angles， stitches.

    Terrible gash at a medial rib.

    Imprint： sole of His foot，

    the other merely heel， curve of

    a branch at its one end blackened，

    released to ash their

    fingers as furious as sparks

    in the medieval dusk

    repairing a fire . . . They must have

    wept as they bled as they sang.