Michael Bonacci DESCENT FROM THE CROSS Even the angels scream in Giotto’s frescoes. They collect His blood in gold chalices, that’s how precious it is. I’ve tasted it, pulled out the nails from His wrists and sucked them, tenderest meat along the bone. My tongue darted between radius and ulna, slipped my hand into His open ribs, licked my fingers like a bear feeding on the hive. I held my warm, breathing body against my lover’s dead, cold one. I was not afraid anymore. Copyright © 2004 by Michael Bonacci. All rights reserved.