Christ in the Garden

I.

Abruptly his face in the gardener's face
abruptly a rosary of garlic and rye in his hand
his language now rougher, his peasant-talk.

The body's no longer a desert. Time is measured
in mud and feathers. Christ now keeping faith with his life
misses the uncertain light of childhood.

Open-tombed
heavens approach
spirit him away from the watching woman.

And now on the rye and garlic she tells
a beaded silence a Magnificat.

II.

She hugs tight a memory
enough to squeeze out breath.

Deep in her loins and in her heart
silent death has planted its flag.

At the mirror
she cancels her body in the half-light
astonished at the sight of her own face.

Among long-established things
the tenderness of cuttings
taken from a God
spreads roots in her.