When, in a museum, you see Christ,
again, newly harvested from the hill,
do not be afraid. If mourners come
to lay the burden down, to sanctify
in scented oils the body for the journey,
remember. Light too is harvested,
ground into flour, amber, threnody,
wine, poured into the musculature
that tells you, the dead are far too beautiful
to die just yet. We will need another
hour. Our wounds will grow senseless,
bloodless. Some will empty. Others close.
Do not be afraid, says a field in April
whose darkness blows a kiss across our eyes.