I’ve never seen a woman hanging from a cross
only rarely from a noose,

more often from a pole or trapeze—
a swing!—or those invisible strings

that make it seem she’s flying
safely

above ground,
where I’ve seen her carried,

pinned, rather,
to a man’s lapel, lacquered,

then shelved with his trophies and stuffed
animals: he plays as he likes

till she turns up tattered, split-
lipped in a ditch somewhere they take pictures

and hang them in the air where
they tell me not to go

wandering alone.