Holy Saturday

Descent

“…he went and made proclamation to the spirits in prison, who in former times did not obey.”

                                    1 Peter 3.19

(Rilke)

Seduced, finally, he fled

that pale, thin body and all the suffering

it endured. Up, he went. He put it all

behind him. Even the darkness was afraid

and hurled winged bats at that

blood-drained body lying there.

At night, dread surged

in the veins and membranes of their wings,

wings that fluttered

and twitched in remembrance

of that pain which lies

with the body—both of them

dead and cold.

Even the very air darkened

and felt sorrow for this flesh.

In the night, the dark animals—

driven by the moon—

wailed

and went stupid with grief.

Maybe his freed spirit

meant to wander about

in the bare-lit countryside,

moving and doing as shadows do

at night. What he suffered

was enough. What

moved in the night—

these shadowy figures—

were gentle to him

and he, in turn, longed

to embrace them

as a room embraces mourners.

Beneath it all, the earth—

thirsty after draining his wounds—

cracked and split open.

In the abyss, a voice

cried out. No stranger

to anguish, he heard

and understood

that hell howled for him

to finish what

began with his first

movement of pain, hoping

their pain would end

when his finally did.

Still, the fear of pain reigned

for the moment. Down, his spirit

plummeted, weighed

by exhaustion. And there,

he walked impatiently

through the rain of amazed expressions

from those sighing shadows

who stood about, shocked.

Among them, he set

his gaze upon that first man of the earth.

He ran! his stride taking him

deeper. There, he was swallowed

by the darkness. He then reappeared,

only to be swallowed once more,

this time into the wreckage of the deepest places.

Finally, up he went, up

over the voices pouring out

as he climbed. With them,

hands grasped in his hands, through

the sounds and sights, he rose

toward that sturdy place

of his lying down. There,

not breathing or blinking,

he stood up without support,

owning all anguish. Silent.    

Copyright © 2014 by Jamie Parsley (from That Word)