but I still love the story.
How, like a magician,
Christ wakes the nails from
the bed of his hands.
And bending over to untie
the ropes on his
ankles,
exposes his tender thighs and
loins
to the weeping public.
How he walks in the street
where Cain ran after he killed,
into the corner of the garden
where Solomon saw the black rams
and sang.
And he looks beyond his
gang of disciples,
into the desert.
And how he longs for
the sweetness and
immobility
of a cave,
like the one from which
he once stole Lazarus.
At the house
of his mother,
it’s very quiet.
It’s been three days
since death:
he’s chased away the last
of his disciples.
He will grow old here,
he decides:
alone & fertile.
He chants to himself.
The crows watch from the trees,
he paints comets
and lions in the pink dust.
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