Friday, April 6, 2018

naffs al nahaar

Here we are, staring at each other again—
Resurrection eyes,
in need of the great ophthalmologist.

Here we are, here he is
you are here.

You are here
in his eyes
in his smile
—in the crumbling bricks above the Tiber,
in the night breeze above the traffic—
you are here
in his hands which break the bread
in the hands which once held mine,
folded now in prayer,
unentangled (?) at last.

This chapel inspires pity—
patroned by the lady mercy.
Her quality is unrestrained,
pouring down in flood-like torrents
upon the frozen humus within
the snow-buried winters of our hearts.
Melting, with deadly ferocity,
our winter,
flooding our dead earth with spring
which eats into our homes,
swells our rivers,
buoys ducks to doorsteps.

You are here,
in the breath of her next to me,
in the folds of the song in his throat
You are here,
in the cross which holds your plaster body,
and which forms between my body
and the others which surround me.

Is this Resurrection? To be remade in the shape of crosses
thick and dark, running between us?

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