Easter Saturday is a grey ocean of sorrow,
and a man in a little boat. Peter escaping
A World paused and become inscrutable.

No word in the wind and waves, still still.
A spirit hovering over the waters. No form
to a void the questioning. And the answers.

From today, what is this world? This earth,
of rotting gods’ bodies, fecund with promises,
who eats her young, slowly digested by sea?

Oh please swallow me! Drink me down
like Jonah. For though it was all Not,
I denied it. When yesterday today was

And hope hung. Outstretched they bask
On the beach, and children keep the Sabbath
with games that have no obvious resolution.

Of dying and rising, who can tell? That tomb? Besides
the fresh cut grave, the wounded earth, I listened.
But his mouth was stopped with stone.

© Dan Anderson 2009