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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.