Hands

Bleeding knuckles drip
On rotten wood
Like red sweat off a wrinkled head.
Jagged nails rest on scarred fingers
Busted purple at the tip
Like helmets on witless soldiers,
Blithely following commands.
Real bruises remind that the hands
Are fully man’s:
The product of a hammer swinging slip.
I thought that carpentry
Had left my hands just like the Carpenter’s.
But I was wrong.
These are a soldier’s hands.
These knuckles bled as I beat Him.
These nails chipped as I pierced Him.
These hands bruised as I pounded Him
Into the cross.
I won’t make Pilot’s damn mistake.
I can’t
Wash the Carpenter’s blood from my hands.
It’s the only thing that covers my scars.