The Grand Miracle

for John Holohan Jesus wound up with his body nailed to a tree— a torment he practically begged for, or at least did nothing to stop. Pilate watched the crowd go thumbs down and weary, signed the order. So centurions laid Jesus flat on a long beam, arms run along the crosspiece. In each palm a long spike was centered, a stone chosen to drive it. (Skin tears; the bones start to split.) Once the cross got propped up, the body hung heavy, a carcass— in carne, the Latin poets say, in meat. (—The breastbone a ship’s prow . . .) At the end the man cried out as men cry. (Tears that fill the eyes grow dark drop and by drop: One cries out.) On the third day, the stone rolled back, to reveal no corpse. History is rife with such hoaxes. (Look at Herodotus.) As to whether he multiplied loaves and fishes, that’s common enough. Poke seed-corn in a hole and see if more corn doesn’t grow. Two fish in a pond make more fishes. The altar of reason supports such extravagance. (I don’t even know how electricity works, but put trust in light switches.) And the prospect of love cheers me up, as gospel. That some creator might strap on an animal mask to travel our path between birth and ignominious death—now that makes me less lonely. And the rising up at the end into glory—the white circle of bread on the meat of each tongue that God might enter us. For 2000-near years my tribe has lined up at various altars, so dumbly I open this mouth for bread and song.