The image of the invisible God

I thought I saw you at the market
after you died, and again rounding
a corner on Monte Sano, past Holy 
Trinity. Convinced, despite your ashes
in an alabaster urn, I follow my mother 
until she turns to look at me with the wrong
eyes, wrong smile, three inches too tall –
this body was not yours resurrected. Yet,
the absentache does not dissipate, 
but burrows deeper in the bone. Doctors
say it’s quite common after amputation
to feel pain where there is no longer a limb,
experience it as fully as when it was
part of your frame you could see
and touch – the missing part remains
present somehow despite its removal.

I wonder if Christ misses his body,
now ascended, misses the smell
of his own skin and sweat, timbre
of his own voice, touch of his mother’s hand
sweeping hair from his face, even well into manhood –
does he miss his father’s hand on his shoulder,
the grip of his fingers around a hammer,
unravelling a scroll? Does he reach to touch
his chest where the pain of humanity
still throbs, but there is no ribcage, no pumping 
heart? Or does he try to conjure the scent
of spices, taste of roasted lamb filling his stomach, 
the sensation of sleep? Does his side still
flinch with the memory pain of a blade
sunk deep, do his fingers long to trace
the borders of his wound?

℘℘℘℘

Nadine Ellsworth-Moran is a minister serving in Georgia, USA. She has a passion for writing and the arts. She is fascinated by the obscure and the way grace shows up unannounced. She has been published in over 60 journals and hopes to continue to find ways to put the indescribable into words. She lives with her husband and five unrepentant cats.