Not the Great Roman Emperor
in love with Christ
but the little Russian boy
who sits on a stool in his father's
shoe repair shop
watching his fingers turn
to leather reaching for his eyebrows
and finding long laces to wrap
around his small ankles
his quiet hands.
A soldier walks on Constantine
to Budapest, as the soul of Constantine
becomes thinner and thinner,
until he can feel the snow
through his chest.
Or so that's how I imagine it.
Handing a plum to little Constantine
sitting on a stool in his fathers shoe shop,
begging me silently for more plums.
fiction poetry "fact" photography