Maundy Thursday, redbuds frenetic with their magenta boogiewoogie a host of white sleeves the two plums outside our window the purple sash hung on the cross in front of the Pente- costal church a cape. Surely power of life over death trumps any way with train or joker or whathaveyou. It is not comic colors nor cool cars we come to adore but the thrill of fresh mulch on a March morning the first strawberry greenly anticipated the pig’s fat flirting fangling new the lacy hems of collard, mustard, kale
Quinn Amelia four days old
some voices gather for a last supper for a closer walk around vowels soft and consonants swift Yeshua, Jesus, Lord thank you for this life again and again and again
I have met them in the Uffizi the angel hunched on bended knee— his thigh thick beneath his satin robe— the virgin’s urgent contrapposto her sudden arm extended long beyond the border of her cape halting his rehearsed song as if his theme weren’t love but rape.
Her face impossibly serene does not betray her body’s fear. His deathless eyes have never seen a mortal woman quite so near. The space between their outstretched hands salvation in a single glance.
This soot-dark smear across the brow, between the eyes, will lead you, if the way be clear, through all the endless winter of our year, toward an elemental table, the tears and savage hubbub of that agonizing garden, the treacherous courtyard, hilltop, nails and spear, the cry, the dark descending fear, and then another garden with a cave and such an austere emptiness will fill the rest of history with clear resounding alleluias.