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Strange, how we all seemed to find our way back here, after yesterday’s
horror and shame; back to this upstairs chamber filled with dark corners,
old gestures of brokenness, sad echoes of pouring, of song, and of prayer.
None of us spoke much, looked each other in the eye; too much to hide,
too much to fear, to forget. Little sleep was had, anxious listening instead
for the tramp of the temple guard, fist on the door, the harsh accusation.
Must try to eat something now, think of a plan for tomorrow, find courage

Another morning for the death of God.
Another evening for the death of God.
Time, place, duration, season, all transposable,
the dead Christ hangs in agony, haloed,
or rises from a tomb still-dead-alive,
his face resigned, his body writhing.

Mother of sorrows, I followed in his way
Seeing him stumble beneath his heavy cross
Weeping at the agony of this awful day.
More than a sword pierced my heart, my loss
Staggering beneath the shame of all the world.
Delusional, face pouring with blood and sweat
He bent to have his face wiped by a girl
Leaving its imprint so we would not forget.
Running my fingers over the impressed face
I draw the brow, like mine, now bruised and dark,
His noble mouth, my father’s. I could trace
All of our people, all of the family marks

Watching people flocking to hear him preach
Holding their limbs up to be touched and healed,
I pondered again the love I heard him teach,
Knowing the Pharisees wanted to kill
My son reverenced the heart, the very truths
They twisted to their own ends. Puzzled, amazed.
At all he knew, his purity of youth.
I saw him, following him that deadly day
He rode like David through the crowd, a king.
Hosanna they shouted, throwing their garments down
My flesh made strange, I felt my body sing,

By day, it drowses fitfully,
its sleep empty, dreamless,
like a sky wishing for birds.

At night, when its hinged
body wakes, it remembers
the twin joys of carrying

and being carried, the thrill
of embracing the earth
and resisting its pull.

What the suitcase wants
is a thing that any of us
might call love: that is,

to feel full and
weightless
at the same time.

He fought with dragons in the wilderness,
The old Nick, he who had his way with Eve.
Jesus, my grown son, now in Nazareth,
In the synagogue, they never believed
I mothered him. Crazy, the family thought.
The crowds parted announcing his family neared.
Murmuring at the mysteries he taught.
“Who are they? Those who do God’s will are mine,
My mother, my sisters, my brothers, all of you,”
His heritage made words riding the blue.
My son now giving birth without the seed
That I had gotten him for, out of godly need.