Like her friend
she would curse the barren tree
and glory in the lilies of the field.
She lived in noons and midnights,
in those mounting moments of high dance
when blood is wisdom and flesh love.
But now
before the violated cave
on the third day of her tears
she is a black pool of grief
spent upon the earth.
They have taken her dead Jesus,
unoiled and unkissed,
to where desert flies and worms
more quickly work.
She suffers wounds that will not heal
and enters into the pain of God
where lives the gardener
who once exalted in her perfume,
knew the extravagance of her hair,
and now asks her whom she seeks.
Source: John Shea, The Hour of the Unexpected, pp. 48-49.
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