Pietà

Smoke is filling up the valley.
The Blood of Christ mountains 
disappear, erupt from rust
like the ragged rosary in my chest
I am always fingering like Mary 
remembering the perfect beads
of Jesus’ newborn toes. Ten, ten,
how many times she counted,
kissed, wished to gobble them.
How many times she washed
his hairy feet. She must have been 
at least 50. Old, outgrown, holding 
the broken man across her lap, 
his bony limbs a liquid stiffening 
into the form of her final cradle.