The snow is coming in the bitter night,
and all the hushed candles and candy lights
and cheery hymns can’t chase The Devil out of my bones.
At the crucifixion, when Jesus was taken down,
Mary Magdalene washed the blood from Jesus’
swollen face, tenderly, maternally.
They did not let me wash my son’s face,
or anoint him in oil, or wrap him in a white
and pure burial shroud.
At the tomb, Mary Magdalene saw the stone
rolled back, and an angel, bright as the noonday sun,
telling her he is not here.
The room is empty of him, just a dull, low whine
and all the knick-knacks that don’t add up to a person,
and no son of light is telling me he’s come again.
Jesus touched Mary Magdalene’s face, wiped her tears
away and told her to tell the others, tell the world, He
was risen, he was coming again.
Sitting on his bed, too tired and worn out to weep,
there is nothing to touch, and he was not condemned
but by his own heart, his own mind, his own dreams.
He will not be back again.