THE DOORPOST.

(When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, he became enraged. He sent men to kill all the children in Bethlehem and nearby from the age of two and under, according to the time he had learned from the wise men. Then what was spoken by Jeremiah the prophet was fulfilled:"A voice was heard in Ramah, weeping and loud wailing, Rachel weeping for her children, and she did not want to be comforted, because they were gone") – Matthew 2:16-18.

A boy lies

Cupped

upon her palm.

Flesh pink, soft;

Blood warm.

--

A hot stink now.

Blood smears the doorpost:

the wind cries Unclean.

Martyrs are born –

Bodies left unformed.

--

The king snores.

His men hide.

Hands pink; the sting of failure

forever warm.

--

The King of Jews

stirs in sleep,

moans for Home…

The father's nail

worms it's way through

Wood.

He wakes up.

Blood fills

the Babe's cup.

A/N: Like I have said in most of my poems, the dashes are not supposed to be there, I just need to ensure that there's no confusion with the spacing! This format is driving me mad! (If you can, please take a peek at my completed story 'Love Is A Verb'. I'd be infinately grateful!)