First Things

Poetry

(April 2001)

He is Risen

Ingathering my frail smocked son he says: don’t squeeze.
Absolution by poison has made him into papier maché;
They kill him then redress the balance,
Befuddle his blood to save the valved heart.

If the worst of life connives such weakness
How can I plot to sidestep
The slow grinding dust to dust
And graft my tissue to his

To make him new weighty again
Full of substance, begotten not made?

—Nicholas Wolf
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