Lazarus

Imagine his surprise, disoriented in the dark and damp of the tomb—

all alone, all at once. Hadn’t he quit the flesh, wearied of Martha’s nagging,

don’t bother yourself Lazarus, don’t strainyourself Lazarus, and his sister Mary’s

muffled cries? Then the knock. Then the calling of his name. Did he turn his back

to the sound at first, cry out: It’s early yet. Say: Not now. Ask: Why me? Then the

voice of the weeping boy-god who summoned him. Could he not unburden

himself of that skinsack with the ribboned muslin that bound him? Did the light from the

opened door blind? When he staggered from the tomb, did he first hear the wind’s bloated sigh above the land;

or see the shapes of his sisters barreling toward him blurred in his sight, or hear the flat-footed cadence

of their approach? How could any one sense measure their jubilee? Did he rejoice with them or was three days

long enough to miss any one thing, even the earth? What is a body flooded with sweet air compare

to heaven? How small now this earth, how tinny its birdsong. How sloven the tree’s corporal array.