Timing – a poem by Linda McCullough Moore


We each one have our own
particular idea of at what hour,
say, what minute, the Resurrected
roused and stretched, scratched 
and blinked, hard, twice, 
and arose.

From the dead.

We some have it daybreak
when He soldiers forth, a squirrel, 
a Middle Eastern squirrel, the tiny, 
witless witness of the day the world
changed. God loved one squirrel 
that much.

We some have Him shake off 
the shroud like silky cobwebs 
in the middle of the night, feel dew 
deeply in the darkness as He first fills, 
refills, lungs. Feet loving wet grass,
toes happy. The whole world fast asleep.

(The book does say: 
resurrection of the body.
Resurrecting any other bloodless thing
is of no interest to me whatsoever.)

So, we will have body, 
if not bawdy, boldly please.
Not only toes, but turban hair, cramp, 
wrinkle, myrrh perfume, a drench.

There are of course others 
have Him rising later
—six-fifteen, six-thirty – 
there approaching dawn, the only 
one who sees him, stumbling home,
a drunk, who does not know he’s 
there, who does not know He’s there.

That is who God comes to,
dripping glory on damp sand.
But at what hour, 
seen or gone unnoticed, 
that’s more difficult to say.

Linda McCullough Moore is the author of two story collections, a novel, an essay collection and more than 350 shorter published works. She is the winner of the Pushcart Prize, as well as winner and finalist for numerous national awards. Her first story collection was endorsed by Alice Munro, and equally as joyous, she frequently hears from readers who write to say her work makes a difference in their lives. For many years she has mentored award-winning writers of fiction, poetry, and memoir. She is currently completing a novel, Time Out of Mind, and a collection of her poetry. www.lindamcculloughmoore.com

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