Offer them your hands, I think,
as three Irish wolfhounds spring
from their owners’ sides and bound
over earth like it was sponge.
Fingers freed from my pockets,
I lower my wrists, flatten
my palms; feel them kiss the blood
from my invisible wounds –
let them taste my stigmata.
Nailed to the spot on this hill,
I hang here, my arms outstretched.
Try hard to show them no fear.