Denarius.

Four grams of silver,
a potentate’s profile
pressed into relief—
metal trained to remember a face.

Worth enough
to eat today.
Passed hand to hand,
features worn by touch,
the image obscured.

Pontif Maximus,
high priest, bringer of peace.
The kind of god who accepts coin,
the circulation of power,
as sacrifice.

Another image—
not pressed, but breathed.

What must be given?

To lesser gods,
silver pulled from the dirt.
To the living God,
nothing more or less
than what already bears
His mark.