Flannel Board

I’ve been inured to violence, so understand, 
I’ve no sensation for nails smashing through feet:
Instead, show the tale of footprints on the beach,
because I know how sore feet get in sand. 

And the hands, not so blood-red! 
Paint him, instead, with palm astride 
a door that stays shut (it hasn’t two sides), 
Till the cramped fist’s sense is f led. 

Brush over the thorn marks that mar his face; 
bandage the gash too long seeping. 
Drawn there—to that brow stained by weeping— 
the child who alone by his side finds his place.