Stone Jesus

Cemetery where we left my mother’s body in the nearly pinkmetallic casket. My whole life I’ve driven past, turned the dangerous curvewhere cars pull out into accident. I’ve stopped to visit gravesof grandparents — empty-handed or with flowers — the dead neighborwho made us chocolate chip cookies for Christmas.I’ve climbed the cracking steps the corporate office won’t fixto the statue that stands just above my head, the outstretched, constantlycalling-to-us hands — deep-drilled holes to remind us, again,where the stakes would’ve been. I’ve pushed in hard each fingerand thumb. Stared long into vacant eyes that never close.I’ve circled behind, mocked sandals and mossy toes, dared it to dustwhen I’ve turned back. The same yesterday, and today, and forever,standing in the rain or sun doing nothing, even when followers beg,the way my mother begged the last months of her cancer-sick life, a lifetimeof believing that brought no comfort. She was scared, weptin the yellow chair, Why do I have to go?Jesus had a bad weekend for our sins, the comedian joked.He was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin. His motherwas hooked to a chemo drip through a permanent tube in her chest.He watched radiation not shrink eight tumors on her brain. He picked outa light-blond wig she never wore. Show me, stone,lying hands, earn the praise you demand. I’m already damned,so I ask of you. And still those hollowed-out eyes, dead like my mom’swhen she stared at the floor, stopped gasping, couldn’t see us anymore.