Descending Theology: The Resurrection
by MARY KARR
From the far star points of his pinned extremities,
cold inched in—black ice and squid ink—
till the hung flesh was empty.
Lonely in that void even for pain,
he missed his splintered feet,
the human stare buried in his face.
He ached for two hands made of meat
he could reach to the end of.
In the corpse’s core, the stone fist
of his heart began to bang
on the stiff chest’s door, and breath spilled
back into that battered shape. Now
it’s your limbs he comes to fill, as warm water
shatters at birth, rivering every way.
I've discovered that I'm not very good at interpreting poetry. But I think I have some kind of poetic sense, and this is beautiful, stirring. The horrific portrayal of the bodily crucifixion. The stillness, the anticipation of "Now." The flood of warmth as the sonnet's final lines roll off my tongue.