after Keaton St. James
I. Palm Sunday
Sunburned and gleaming, Jesus rides
into town warm and slow to a mass
of green, cloaks spilled out on the road,
and only Lazarus, squinting
from the Eastward gate, shakes his head
to keep from seeing what lies ahead.
II. Maundy Thursday
In the attic, brothers quarreling for seats
and bread, Christ raises a callused hand
to offer teachings, old as grapes,
and something of what is his: a bitter,
tender joy, Peter’s feet dipped and dried,
a cup brimming with tang and sorrow-bottomed wine.
III. Good Friday
Jesus uncurls his fingers from around that
last, shiny coin and climbs the tree, chest bared.
He closes his eyes and strains to recall
sawdust, candles, Nazareth,
but finds just his mother below him
and her robes, stained with still-born grief.
IV. Tenebrae
Golgotha quakes, and the Son of Man
is empty flesh, waking up
among the dead. It is always dusk
in Hell, and Christ walks from street lamp
to street lamp, striking matches
and lighting the path.
V. Holy Saturday
The men having dispersed, Mary and the sisters
gather as if to offer solace, veils drawn
so the quivering loss expands to fill their room.
The women compare hushed stories: forgiveness,
talk of raising up – their tales hollowed, their cups empty,
their voices brittle without the soothing ear of God.
VI. Easter
At dawn, Christ steps light along the pebbled
cliffside, donning gardener’s clothes
as the flowers rush open in his wake. To his servant,
bent in loyal tears, he only calls her name,
and goes on walking toward sunrise, Galilee,
another catch of fish.
To Marvelous Light 