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Best Jesus impression
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.
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