Joseph of Arimathea by Derrick Austin

 

After the miracles there is blood

and an ugly body

no father could love. Joseph can’t

 

believe this strata of bruise

and shattered bone. His hand trembles

against the relief of His face.

 

Despite the bramble, disbelieving,

he combs brittle hair,

reaching deep into those reeds

 

beaten into scrolls of loss.

Scrubbing the flesh with olive oil,

he is awed by his grumbling

 

stomach. What fills me never fails

to abandon, he thinks. The body

beneath me, battered and empty

like a basin is more perfect for it.

Myrrh-dusted, he strokes

the wound below His ribs. It smells

 

like the blacksmith’s furnace,

the fittings of a lock

on an old door. He wonders

 

at the mouth-sized hole,

cauterized by air, crusted over

like a split fruit, a sweet scent

 

dribbling out like a fig

in the dust, swift and sudden joy—

in three days, sealed, memorial.