Arisen

The mysteries[1] say little – less than little –

about those strangest days,

when Jesus is no longer in the tomb –

the linen cloths, discarded –

but is not recognized by his disciples – nor even by

the woman who wept and washed his feet –

He is not here – He has arisen – has his body

bloomed with golden life, a miraculous loaf

which – like the bread he multiplied

for the five thousand – is here

and here, with every break and tear

making his presence manifold?

He is complete, scarred with the wounds

of the crucible; the baking sun, the old

grill of the grave;

the lifting up –

damp cloth dropped back –

into the light.

Is this why the vision of the faithful

is so fitful, even now?

Or are the sheer taut limits

of stunned minds,

unable to find the words,

make cogent sense of the impossible:

we are so hungry,

still rolling our stones,

squinting in the shimmer of the dawn.

[1] (the mysteries of the rosary, which comprise various events in the life of Christ and his mother Mary)

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