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).
Copyright 2001 by Francine Sterle.
Photo of used, abandoned crosses in London is from Carol Gallagher's blog, Mama Bishop.
