(After John 20:15)
crypt empty and broken
heart jilted by her lover.
Why are you crying?
Who are you looking for?
We seek our gods
behind grave walls
too thick for invasion
too deep to escape.
No room for pain
when filled with aching emptiness.
No cranny left for seeping sting
of life before death.
We bury ourselves in strangling simulations, just because:
bow before television blare and phone buzz,
retreat to weed and whiskey,
plunge into pleasures chocolate and carnal:
fleeting harvests of thrills external,
stopgaps for sensations too risky.
Divinity cannot be found in the tomb
but in the dash on the headstone –
in snow-capped monuments to grandeur
or endless horizon beyond lap of waves,
in fingers caressing alabaster cheek
or gathering an old lady’s canned carrots
rolling across the A&P parking lot,
in tranquil solitude of a morning ramble among old oaks
or tired toes curling in sun-kissed sand,
in hearty laughs of comfortable companions,
or the face that stares back over morning ablutions.
Do we dash in the death dealing procession of empire
or in the palm lined parade of life and love?
©2019 Kenneth W. Arthur