A Letter Sent

A Letter Sent

(“When the news reached Pharaoh’s palace, ‘Joseph’s brothers have come,’ Pharaoh and his servants were pleased.” Genesis 45:16)

Every poem I write is a letter
sent
to the ones I’ve loved. They are meant
to diffuse the confusion of past
clowns and charades;
to clear the dusty air from my overnight mind
that awoke hugging a sliver of the bed.
I write in the hope the sky will be surprised
because I’m stuck in the moment,
riveted to the chair,
wanting to stop crying and laughing alone.

This is why I write,
in the hope my words will fold in on themselves
and, like a paper airplane in freshman English
sent from the back of the class,
will land in a soft slide upon your desk.
You won’t even need to read it once you see
it is from me.

Every word I type is a plea,
(I shall not beg)
that someone will recognize my face,
my time, my sweat, the footprints I left
when I only wanted the best for you. Sounds
I haven’t heard in decades
fill my silent isolation.

Did 12 years mean anything? Were 40 a vapor?
Are the cell towers dead? Did you run out of postage?
Is your bank account empty? Have I used up all my hugs?
Am I too weak, too needy? Even just a plaque with my
name spelled out small is something I could hang on the wall.

Unlike Joseph, I stumbled more than I want anyone to know;
still, did any of my days matter? I am sorry for sounding morose,
but couldn’t Pharaoh at least offer a toast and mention
that, though I did not finish perfectly,
I finished pretty well?

Finished!

“After Jesus had taken the vinegar, he said, ‘It is finished!’ Then he bowed his head and died.” John 19:30

A good friend of mine in our church told me how he likes to read the stories in the Bible. “I like to imagine myself right there, in the middle of what is happening,” he said. “It helps me get a feel for what is happening, and what the people were experiencing at that time.”

Opposite the Tomb

Opposite the Tomb

(“Mary Magdalene and the other Mary were sitting there opposite the tomb.” Matthew 27:61)

The chair was vacant, the air was heavy and still,
the hills groaned as afternoon lumbered toward darkness,
the last words they heard tumbling from above the crowd;

They heard them.
They rehearsed them.
They sat with nothing to occupy their hands.

“It is finished”, it is done, it’s all over, we tried our best,
no more can be done, no more to offer, and the quest-
ions

They thought had been answered landed like geese all at once
upon a distant marsh.

The tomb was sealed, the body cold and rigid,
without torches to meet the night they could not stay
seated across the entrance for long. Their hearts were peeled
like summer fruit, their eyes veiled the hope that disappeared as
quickly as the last breath and word they heard.

One cannot interpret, one should not expect, sunrise only moments
after the dimming of the day.

Their fingers, cold as the moon, twisted, hand to hand, the human
consolation when god has dropped the final word on the subject and
is no longer available for follow-up questions.

And so, late on Friday, their eyes fastened on the massive stone,
they slowly rose for the silent walk home; Sabbath, so quiet,
each heartbeat carried its own conversation.

With little else to say, nothing else to do, the rose early
(they knew the tomb, the place and the way), and would love
their Jesus kindly with burial spices;

Some days are like that…quiet recall on a dewy morning,
an errand of love, and intimate conversation when “It is

Finished”

Is not a dying whimper at all.

Across from their seat, still vacant from Friday,
the stone was moved, the air was linen, and, with angelic reasoning

They knew they were mistaken to seek the

Living among the dead.