EASTER

It was just a couple of steps
I hope
They don't break the skin
No bruising
I am three days alive

THE RAISING OF LAZARUS

after Van Gogh

A difficult rebirth. The body
still bound in the cave, unreturned
to the sunlight and drowned
in linens. His skin, waxed
with burial oils, is greyed,
more in tone with the walls
of the tomb than the fields of corn
outside. But it is the empty eyes
where the true horror lies.
Lazarus is dead and alive. The sister,
Martha, throws her arms up, just 
as distressed as praising. 
Does she welcome her brother 
out to the dawn or attempt  
to keep the madness in?
What is she scared of? Knowledge?
If death isn't final then all bets
are off. Is she ashamed or annoyed?
She forked out good money
to put him to rest. She grieved,
Had begun to get used
to not carrying after him. Now 
Lazarus has returned and not.
Life does not fill easily
the liquid flesh. He looks like work.
A monster. The neighbours will talk.

Some think the artist is present,
that the face on the corpse
is his own. That he is warming
himself from the Saint–Paul asylum
for a second life. But he does
not return to the sunflowers fully.
The body seems uncertain
of its ability to stand. It brings
us to Mary, who stands in the shadows,
her back to the viewer, seemingly
wearing the tomb. She who prayed,
who sent for jesus to save
her brother, only for him to arrive
too late. Where is he now?
The Messiah? His absence is genius.
A reminder that miracles
outlive the miraculous. A sister
enslaved to her brother. Another
unsure of what she's done,
retreating and reaching a little
for this simulacrum. This Lazarus
come back from the dead.

THE MAGICIAN PERFORMS AN ESCAPE ROUTINE IN FRONT OF A LIVE STUDIO AUDIENCE

Pilate did it
as though he'd pissed
at the urinal
and, catching his thumb
in the spray,
had rinsed his hands
in the white
reflective bowl
then shrugged.


See his flicked wrists
scatter flecks
of glittered water
crowdwards
from his fingertips
in dizzying spirals
of sunlight
falling at their feet


Of course he was right!
Twice the crowd cried
Barrabas
though he'd compelled
them otherwise —
It was only in his power
to do their wish,
gift them his body,
arms outstretched, crucified.


His hand washing theatrics aside,
he stands tallest among them,
his white robe gleaming
clean against the brown earth
turning red in the encroaching shade.

TULIPS

These tulips remind me 
of your puckering anus,

flowering,

petals peeling back

to the bee tongue.

We are making honey

in the garden of Gethsemane.

Among the hydrangeas

and clematis,

my suckling mouth brings

pollen to your stamen.

I am your child father

my brother my son

and here I betray you

with my kiss. My fist.