EASTER, 2021

Photo from Unsplash.

Photo from Unsplash.

The mystery of faith 
is how slippery blood first flows:
But how fast it thickens, gums. Jellies. 
C r u s t s. 

How the body’s folds and fleshy pockets
Slacken, shudder, stiffen, soften, r o t
into a neatly-wafered word.

None of us saw God’s corpse. That’s the problem. 
That’s the scandal every Easter preacher meets
crouched in the over-warm chapel, seething with stillness and the scent
of funerary flowers for God’s wake.

Christ’s rising: that’s the miracle
We fear to make. We must recraft, redraw,
withdraw the bloody shaft, re-estimate the angle
which needle-thrusts God’s Gospel to the heart: 

How deeply-mounded in this clammy corpse, how deep
the ribcage, hinged with tumors, teratoma treasures
not one part but many, dark distended flesh:
Strike through!
Strike true.

Until the dead heart stirs again, 
The grey-haired gossipers straighten, brighten, tremble
As soil might shiver! As stone! Years fall 
like dirt from rising fungal caps
Thrusting spearlike up through taut and lifeless skin:

And blood spills out again. 

Caitlin Smith

Caitlin Smith is a postdoctoral researcher writing about spiritual autobiography, skepticism, and the Holy Land in 18th and 19th century American literature. She lives in Heidelberg, Germany with her autocratic Chihuahua and taciturn husky mix.

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THE FUTURE OF THE CHURCH IS TO GIVE IT AWAY

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HIDDEN BLESSINGS