Visiting the Tomb with Joseph

There’s no story of Joseph

returning to the tomb

but I would

if I was him.

I would run my hands over

the stone I cut

marveling at the world’s

first used tomb.

I would make sure

my memory was real--

yes, I did clean his wounds.

Yes, I did set his face

and close his eyes

because he couldn’t.

Yes, his hands,

once alive enough to hold oceans

and heal daughters

were just as cold and solid

as the walls around them.

Yes, I covered him with cloth,

wrapping up the future

we imagined

of a world where he was king

and we were all royalty.

Yes, I had washed his feet

and wondered how/if

they had truly walked across the sea.

Yes, I searched

for any traces of love left

through the damage anger left.

Yes, I, too

would be slow to see

the story had changed,

to see the twist of life,

having stayed so long

with the body of death.

If I brought the grave

to the story,

if I sat in the dark

with the God gone cold,

if I closed the door

on the broken body,

How

could I too rise and move

toss aside the burying clothes

kick away the immovable stones

test and try my tick-tocking heart

to return to the wild world

knowing it breaks us apart?

How could I follow

the risen out

having spent my life

preparing for the way in?

Joseph never tells.

He never carves it in stone.

Probably too busy dancing.