What a time to hold both mourning and fear:
surreal and sudden, from palms to passion,
mission at miserable end, the house
silent as passing round tea, with tears,
they awaited a knock, the Pharisees' fashion
of heartlessly seeking hopes to douse
in their doctrine, ignoring Abram's wonder:
that smoking vision of God down the row
of animal pieces, to show who would pay;
they forgot to consider that God would sunder
Himself for the covenant his people long broke,
that the Christ must die to become the way.
Yet so, with the skies, the followers wept,
thinking their leader crushed and gone
taken with cruelty by Calvary's arts.
What was Sabbath if Rome and the Pharisees swept
all aromas of liberty and hope thereupon
away with his promise from their sorrowful hearts?
Did they worship that day, with their minds in a tomb?
Did they eat of the Eucharist, recalling the plan
of his body and blood to be given and poured?
It seems that they didn't, for morning's grey gloom
surrounded the women with spices in hand
to fulful one last duty for their fallen lord.
Yes, Saturday held them in tumult and woes.
And Sunday rebuked them with folded clothes.
My mouth is cavernous, and my hands anchors. In my fingers I feel a sprig of thyme, not there at all but a log nonetheless: Each finger a one-tonne sausage. How far is it to the corner of the ceiling? At least two hundred decibels, I say. Like the recurring childhood nightmare and mom’s soothing hushes blaring. How huge is the world, if it’s miles to the door? If people are shrunk and the floor breathes? My centre of gravity churns. Once, at dinner, my son asked me why I looked like I was next door. How are you doing that, Daddy? Smiling, not reeling, it was mild. And I feel the pitching as the volume sways.