I cannot grieve the risen God,
but grief gnaws me.
He was my friend
And all the moments that we shared
are bathed in streaming light
washed of their colours
redyed in the messianic.
What can I do?
Who can I be?
without even faith —
there is no doubt in this uncertainty.
He was dead, is risen,
spoke to me, strangely,
for he had come from a far place,
but spoke to me, touched me,
and where my friend’s body had been
was the Son of Man made God
in complete and utter certainty.
I think I will go back to Magdala
and sit with the old women in the sun
dressed in black, not talking,
sewing winding sheets
for the life of the world to come.
13th February 2000