A poem for Good Friday
If I hold my hand against the wood, flat, like this
I can feel your breathing. Slow.
I remember Labor. A mother does.
At least, I think that is your breathing I feel.
on the other hand
I am feeling the Earth, moaning.
When I kissed the soles of your feet in the manger
they were soft.
You kicked and giggled
with those pudgy arms out
at right angles to your little body,
Like they are now, but soaking wood.
Now I feel those same feet on my head
So much walking. Callouses. Dust to dust.
Spent on humanity.
On being With us.
And the rose-blossom around that spike.
“Lo, how a rose e’er blooming”
“From tender stem hath sprung” a cross-beam.
I remember that night, three decades ago.
Shepherds, wise men, angels.
It was noisy.
And here now are we my sweet boy.
And John the Beloved one.
The morning sky livid sky in
rose crystals, blues and mauve.
For now, choking back our Halleluiahs
With an eternity of sentient beings.
Even the sun mourning the Son.
Here waiting with John, your friend.
He just keeps staring up at you;
wood in both hands.
Two holding wood
the third clutching iron.
Waiting for dear life.
For life, Dear.
by Charles LaFond