Descending Theology: The Resurrection
by Mary Karr
From the far star points of his pinned extremities,
cold inched inblack 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 corpses core, the stone fist
of his heart began to bang
on the stiff chests door, and breath spilled
back into that battered shape. Now
its your limbs he comes to fill, as warm water
shatters at birth, rivering every way.