I have no trouble understanding why or that some people, many people, don't like crosses. Because: history. But the form, the outline looks archetypal to me, an ancient shape, primitive in that primitive can be pure; an embrace. A form that predates history or lives in spite of history, as archetypes do. And that's what came to mind when I happened on this lovely poem by Francine Sterle. Her collection housing this poem is reviewed in Boston Review.

Making a Cross

Of 385 varieties, to make the simplest

all you need are two sticks:

one vertical; the other, horizontal.

Call one time; one, space or

life—death, good—evil, male—female.

You choose. Any polarity will do

as long as the cross-piece cuts across

the one upright. Now, it's a human form

with arms outstretched. Rub them together.

A couple of sparks, a few more,

a flash of light, a slow increase in heat,

and radiating around you: uncontainable fire.

____

Francine Sterle. From Every Bird is One Bird (Tupelo Press).

Photo of used, abandoned crosses in London is from Carol Gallagher's blog, Mama Bishop.