She holds up two fingers

for the garçon. Pitcher of

sangria. Slices of clementine

float in the Precious Blood.

The ice clinks. Red sweat on the glass.


I cannot shake the feeling

that you will return after all,

shaking your head as you unwind

the grave-clothes,

saying boy, that was weird.

Hours gather on you

like pale green on copper.

But ankle-deep Joshua

staggered the sun

between his fingertips like a blood orange,

taut skin ready to burst.


Speculators, furtive on Golgotha,

tapped the Savior like a maple tree

and sold the dark wine.

Long-stemmed glasses. People dine

al fresco. On the television, a blond bouffant,

an arm in suit cloth sawing the air.


Robert Hamilton is a poet and English professor living in Texas. His chapbook, Heart Trouble, was published by Ghost City Press in 2018, and recent poetry appears in Posit and The Fictional Café.