Opening the Tomb

Opening the Tomb

Human being—walking

in doubt from childhood on: walking

a ledge of slippery stone in the worlds woods

deep-layered with wet leaves—rich or sad: on one

side of the path, ecstasy, on the other

dull grief.                                             Walking…

                                                                                                Denise Levertov                               

                                                                                                Human Being

I

To make it

real it would need

(like he said

                it would be)

to be rolled off

and resting like all rocks

do, on the side of the tomb

a big stone, too much

for one man alone

to move and just plain

impossible for a dead man.

But there it was

and not too soon I’d guess

because the men are coming

and they’re carrying

their doubt clutched to

their hearts like a stab wound

and they go into the dark

heaving and leave

strangely calm and still

not fully believing. 

Thieves maybe, they say, grave-

robbers.  I wouldn’t

put it past those Romans

or even his own

father, everybody knows

he was only joking

when he said God

was this and God

was that, he just wanted

to get our attention.

But then, how do you explain

this?  How do you explain

two days ago and the road

choked while he broke

down, once, twice…

II

In two thousand years and some

more, there will be

two men fishing the weirs

and the one man

will look up and he’ll see

a great light

in the trees

and the other man

will want to put in

because he’s got a feeling

and a need to see

with what great speed

the sky was being

eaten.  And so they did

and stowed the boat

and walked in

their rubber boots up the dirt

road.  The old man knew it

well, that road, walked it

a lot when his son

was well, when he hadn’t left

his children to make

a new wife

and a new life

and a new child

and these being left

with their other mother. 

III

But something

always breaks down,

and if it’s on the coal stove

simply dripping on the floor

and an afghan is dragged

against it and a random

cigarette cherry…

or maybe the old boat going down

though they should’ve beaten

the storm and someone’s brother

gets drowned or walks off

the boat knowing it’s that

or the stones they’ll all get
stove up against.

So what do they know

going up the road all casual?

They’d both grown up

Catholic and sometimes at mass

the old man would stand

at one or another

of the stations and make amends

and leave a coin

under the stubs of candles

and pray for his son,

sometimes drunk,

sometimes off

to Vietnam, sometimes

come home boasting

of nothing but rice and snakes

and maybe for a while

make good

on his word to stay clear

of the booze.  All this

slunk in and out

of the trunk of his brain,

while the light

which through the trees even

as they reach the end

of the driveway

makes them both think maybe

of wreaths at the end

of Christmas season, the ones

the women had made

but couldn’t sell, and the heat

on the brush pile

snapping and sending up

a fresh aroma, above

the pigsty, above the cow

barn…

IV

But it’s none of that it

isn’t it’s his grand

kids and the trailer

is fully engaged and he

collapses

when he sees it and says

Jesus

Jesus

Jesus

and he fists his heart

and the fisherman

beside him too

on his knees and digging

but he’ll never say why

rock after rock

out of the driveway

(maybe something

for the old man to hold on to)

while he alone
ran into it all

the rest of the way in:

the door open

the fire offering it all up

to God all three children,

Christ Jesus, and the baby

making it out alive

just as the others

are found hiding

held together in the corner

of the bed

like they’ve been waiting

waiting…