Descending
Theology: The Resurrection
by
Mary Karr
From
the far star points of his pinned extremities,
cold
inched in—black ice and squid ink—
till
the hung flesh was empty.
Lonely
in that void even for pain,
he
missed his splintered feet,
the
human stare buried in his face.
He
ached for two hands made of meat
he
could reach to the end of.
In
the corpse’s core, the stone fist
of
his heart began to bang
on
the stiff chest’s door, and breath spilled
back
into that battered shape. Now
it’s
your limbs he comes to fill, as warm water
shatters
at birth, rivering every way.
That took my breath away. Thank you, again, Jeannie! May I share this (and a link to your blog) on multicolouredsmartypants?
ReplyDeleteSure, Sandy. Isn't it an incredible poem? A shiver rushes up my spine as I read it: "the stone fist/of his heart began to bang on the stiff chest's door..." Amazing.
DeleteWhat a poem. Those last two lines are beautiful!
ReplyDeleteI know! She is a wonderful poet.
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