But on their “God Wills It”
way to the Holy Land . . .
no miraculous feeding
of five thousand plus.
No skeletons in armor
would suffice to rid
the tomb of the Lord
of obnoxious Turks.

Twelve crosses on horseback,
M.A. disciples of the Master,
galloped to a tiny farm,
tethered their tired horses
and bolted the barndoor
behind loudly protesting peasants.

When they had gone,
a stiff wind blew filthy feathers
into a prickly hedge of thornbushes
as the wailing peasant’s wife
shoveled the heads of hens
on a pile.

The farmer jumped frantically
around a puddle of darkening blood,
looked down on the besmirched head
of his only cow.

Between battered teeth
he swore at the red crosses
which in the distance
undulated high
above smirking footsoldiers.

From the hovel’s only table
dripped blood and semen.

She was twelve years old.