(During the Medieval and Renaissance periods it was common for painters to task out finishing the less prestigious parts of paintings. This included basic anatomical features like feet to allow the master more time to focus on the grander projects.) A crown of thorns The smell of the hole in his side Hands limped and lifeless Too tired to plead With heaven or hell As legs dangle Off a withered corpse Half-broken branches About a dead tree Twisting in the wind And the ankles Of these chicken-bone legs Is where I am to begin Here I stand And angels behind me Judging if my feet Will fit my master’s body My master, Knowing he is my master, Does not watch Does he know Even Endymion From his seat in Hades Bats his eyes To check my metatarsals Which hang about his ankles As I look up I see the looming eyes Of a beautiful devil And a crowd of angry Jews Point their daggers at me Demanding I finish the work Pontious, staring back Just give them what they want You can’t say I didn’t spare anyone Eyes choked With bloody tears Cast to the ground What does he think Of my moccasins Here I stand Waiting to paint the feet Of another’s Christ.