Easter Saturday
Kathryn Hamann
I
That Friday bore a weathered cross from the garden —
now the weight of barren wood presses into red carpet
and an unmoving orbit of candles throws small light
against the darkness where bodies are stretched
like beached comets snared by an unseen gravity
For a third time chant rounds on itself
I rise walk between flames that cast
grotesque shapes across me And
according to custom, knees bend my hand caresses
raw wood to learn again what it is to be pierced
Swaddled in silence entombed, I fall
into an ocean of many hues lured down
to seek the depth's face – one that could be loved
until drawn by sun my body soars – an arc of yearning
II
Netted by time – I am rushed onto a created shore –
there to sprawl – abandoned Sea
receding beyond touch or sight (Aeons pass – lapping
me in their shadow) Sand dries – barren grain And
one path it leads away from any hope of return
So, finally, it comes – the inching upwards over
sand and submerged rocks (weathered sharp) Brought
to a cliff, I edge along (my arms embracing its face
as if this was a lost love) And in a recessed crook
where sea and shore are alike dream – three sheer
steps (carved for giants) – a glinting impossibility
In constant sliding in the looking for some
other way mocked by a flitting voice (To where
To where), I, after failure, after agony – grapple
the last edge it crumbles into a cascade
of stone but revealed a place that holds And so
abled, I limp (with rich wounds poor)
upon a flat plain of honed grass Before
(as it always was) that contorted tree – joints
swollen, limbs frozen yet I in longing – mad –
crave for nothing less than to climb – conform self to
the angle of its arms but hard to nestle in rigid frame
III
Long before I could bend sufficient to claim a place
where weight borne is home gained And now
in vision – glimmer of distant waters scoring me
with yearning Mine a faint echo of a greater
passion The depths showed love's touch Here
on heights open to the lash of wind – desire breaks
light spreading colour across morose sky
Time shears – and as if severed by lightning
(though there is none) wood parts
Before me a narrow path paved
with nothing and compassed
by figures of such radiance
sun-birthed light seems like shadow
Eye helpless to sculpt form out of sight – yet
somehow I know my presence births joy and this
they would cast upon me (why – I cannot say)
Purple of hard-sweet voices winds around me,
directing my steps to their meeting-point of fire
All paused I need only to walk in,
a parade of one And I am there –
sitting alone Candles
dead Church dark Air still
sinking into cold Yet dawn has come
The Son has risen – white fire revealed –
waiting for me to dance into the heart
and discover I'll have none but His
