So here I am:
Deep down in the hole
Of the Holy Language,
Working a rich seam
Of bone, teeth and horn.
Reassembling God’s Skeleton
In flickering lamplight -
Listening to my canary sing
The song Nicodemos whistled
As Jesus was dying.
Where in hell
Did that silly bird learn that tune?
Although, I gotta say,
It’s pretty catchy.
Damned impossible to forget.
Figure it’s after noon -
Time to make the climb
Back up into Saturday.
This day where nothing seems to have moved:
The torn veil hanging still in the Temple.
It’s all much darker
Than I expected it to be,
Rain falling like an ocean pouring down.
Through it all, I see trees dancing,
drunken skeletons tearing up the earth.
I make a meal:
Bread and wine.
Contemplate every single bite
Every swallow, every breath between
And I wonder, maybe slightly hopeful,
What kind of day Sunday’s going to be.
"I took the Friday-Saturday-Sunday schema from the New Testament: Christ's death on Friday, with the darkness that descended on Earth, the tearing of the veil of the Temple; then the uncertainty that - for the believers - had to be beyond horror, the uncertainty of the Saturday when nothing happened, nothing moved; finally the resurrection on Sunday. It's a schema with limitless power of suggestion. We live through catastrophes, torture, anguish; then we wait, and for many the Saturday will never end. The Messiah won't come, and Saturday will continue.”
- George Steiner, A Long Saturday
