The southern crossFour stars transfix my fate
like a miraculous medal.
It is up there for me to see:
a crucifix. Around it,
a scapular of stars.
Like Christ, I too must bear
a cross: a plastic cross
around my neck, across my soul.
Beads of sweat and prayers
dangling like rosaries.
And each time I stargaze
light pierces my hands, my feet:
like a stigmatist.
And then I bleed, profusely,
red and lovely like a rose.
Southern saints are crucified
in this part of the southern sky.
J. Neil C. Garcia
