Easter and I would have called him Jesus.
Here in this unholy hindsight he is gold.
I was foretold my body would deny him.
I am in a stately garden when it shakes.
The sun has rolled; the yew trees cooled.
Then silence. It shakes like an ear lashed.
My body is the net through which he drops.
His signature is red on the book of this day.
He is dropped into the smallest of hours
Until the cockerel crows its sound abacus.
Again, and I would have called him Jesus.
It is keener now, this halo hindsight glow.
This time the garden is crowded with days.
Some stand closer to the sun than others.
I go to meet them; my hand is outstretched
But my body drops and I fall down to split.
I keep on talking as if my body is elsewhere.
White day? I shake. Meet another blood day.
On this verge of this edge of this cusp, I talk.
I talk until the cock crows its dawn telepathy.
I would have called and called and called.
He would be the age of a short miracle now.
The garden is smaller or I have grown older
And the denial comes quick as a headshake.
It blots red not days but months, years ahead.
My body is witness to the outline of his tomb.
His cross is a kiss blown on the dust motes.
The cockerel’s crow is as constant as morning.
My body keeps its pulse; it stays the blood.
I have a rock body, stone cold and steady.