The Flying Mexican Jesus

I was born in a manger off Huber Road
the blood of a child welcomed by burlap

the fields had been plowed under for winter
smell of bare dirt waiting for spring

next year’s rain just a cocoon
the creek clogged with stones

hoosegows of judgment day put off till mañana
winter wind narrated by an ass

they threw me off the manger’s balcony
I learned to fly with a thud.