The Raising of Lazarus

Evidently, this was needed. Because people need

to be screamed at with proof.

But he knew his friends. Before they were

he knew them. And they knew

that he would never leave them

there, desolate. So he let his exhausted eyes close

at first glimpse of the village fringed with tall fig

trees — 

immediately he found himself in their midst:

here was Martha, sister of the dead

boy. He knew

she would not stray,

as he knew which would;

he knew that he would always find her

at his right hand,

and beside her

her sister Mary, the one

a whole world of whores

still stood in a vast circle pointing at. Yes,

all were gathered around him. And once again

he began to explain

to bewildered upturned faces

where it was he had to go, and why.

He called them “my friends.” The Logos, God’s

creating word, — the same voice that said

Let there be light.

Yet

when he opened his eyes,

he found himself standing apart.

Even the two

slowly backing away, as though

from concern for their good name.

Then he began to hear voices;

whispering

quite distinctly,

or thinking:

our friend might not have died.

(At that, he slowly reached out

as though to touch a face,

and soundlessly started to cry.)

He asked them the way to the grave.

And he followed behind them,

preparing

to do what is not done

to that green silent place

where life and death are one.

By then other Brueghelian grotesques

had gathered, toothlessly sneering

across at each other and stalled

at some porpoise or pig stage

of ontogenetical horrorshow, keeping

their own furtive shadowy distances

and struggling to keep up

like packs of limping dogs;

merely to walk down this road

in broad daylight

had begun to feel illegal,

unreal, rehearsal,

test — but for what!

And the filth of desecration

sifting down over him, as a feverish outrage

rose up, contempt

at the glib ease

with which words like “living”

and “being dead”

rolled off their tongues;

and loathing flooded his body

when he hoarsely cried,

“Move the stone!”

“By now the body must stink,”

some helpfully suggested. But it was true

that the body had lain in its grave four days.

He heard the voice as if from far away,

beginning to fill with that gesture

which rose through him: no hand that heavy

had ever reached this height, shining

an instant in air. Then

all at once clenching

and cramped — the fingers

shrunk crookedly

into themselves,

and irreparably fixed there,

like a hand with scars of ghastly

slashing lacerations

and the usual deep sawing

across the wrist’s fret,

through all major nerves,

the frail hair-like nerves — 

so his hand

at the thought

all the dead might return

from that tomb

where the enormous cocoon

of the corpse was beginning to stir.

Yet nobody stood there — 

only the one young man,

pale as though bled,

stooping at the entrance

and squinting at the light,

picking at his face, loose

strips of rotting shroud.

All that he could think of

was a dark place to lie down,

and hide that wasted body.

And tears rolled up his cheek

and back into his eyes,

and then his eyes began

rolling back into his head ...    

Peter looked across at Jesus

with an expression that seemed to say

You did it, or What have you done?

And everyone saw

how their vague and inaccurate

life made room for his once more.