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When You rode through the streets on an ass I cried Hosanna.
You never needed us; we're diversions.
You've forgotten us, like the rest of the dead.
You move on and we follow in a loop,
with stories, the best we could offer.
Let my tears be of use, be more
like You: reflective and salty.
I fill the sponge with vinegar,
wash feet, throw dice, wait
at the tomb with everyone.
I see the wrappings coiled like shed skin.

      — Allyson Shaw