Raul Meza

White Plaster

It's going to kill him, he knows. 

Trembling, he grasps a chunk from the offered hand 

Slops it, back and forth, it coats his palms 

pondering—it's slapped on his face. 

The plaster is cold on his sun-kissed skin. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he begins to smooth 

it out, according to certain specification.

His eyes, brown and warm, empathize 

in the mirror. He covers his face completely 

making sure to catch every nook

every cranny. He wants to cry. No. 

Quickly, before they notice, he shapes the plaster

into avant garde shapes—but puts it back

smooth. It begins to dry; his skin itches at the abuse. 

He smears the leftover on his 

arms, making sure it's visible, obvious. 

His eyes stick out of the arsenic-white plaster mask

big and brown, shining madly

until the warmth gives out. 

Crucifixión 

when Jesús was shot once by the Sheriffs 

while doing his job, his body twitched 

in the gutter and was revived, standing

back up and turning the bullets into doves. 

theoretically, scripture should’ve dripped

from his now-holy lips and his people 

should’ve bent the knee to salvation, but

instead, he stood and was promptly shot 

again.