To lie so long in darkness
that you forget your sight—
then shaken by a heartbeat,
pierced by a spear of light,
your chest, constricted, burning—
you choke through yards of dirt.
The breath of life returning,
and oh, dear God, it hurts.
Contort and cough and retch now;
remember how to gasp.
Your folded hands are stretched out
and pinned within his grasp.
Your legs are drawn and trembling,
weak as newborn pup,
the fragments reassembling
as you are lifted up.
How many days you lay there,
crumbling at last to dust!
Now all at once awakened,
ravenous, drenched in thirst,
still your son draws you upward,
Adam and Mother Eve,
to where he fills the cup full.
Take it, he says, and drink.
In Harrowing of Hades, fresco in the parecclesion of the Chora Church, Istanbul, c. 1315, raising Adam and Eve is depicted as part of the Resurrection icon, as it always is in the East. Photo By © José Luiz Bernardes Ribeiro, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=16873002
Kate Bluett 