The Raising Of Lazarus.
As he slowly rose,
by Seamus Hogan
The weight of death wound
Around him, moans wrenched
in two like a smile for a stranger
Who momentarily seemed familiar.
The crowd, as if a vulva, pushed aside
Allowing this strange awakening passage.
At each bending of the knees
There seemed a hesitation;
A nearly worded indecision
With every footstep swelling
Then drowning in the steady current
of their need. An anger
Kindling in eyes already unused to light
At having been called away
By their suffering to decay.
But the earth, already overflowing,
Decided. It knew his going
Was merely a slow return.