Christsong

( after Stevie Smith )    
      
     
     
I was taught      
he is the weightless son      
from eternal death.      
     
But then     
out from under      
brick and mortar dogma,      
that says      
what they claim      
are Christ’s words.      
     
Hear him—      
not only on the wing,      
but everywhere air is lifted,      
     
for wind of storm is breath,      
and rushing water from a stream.      
     
Is this the way—      
where he is distant,      
all in the mind, remote,      
no longer physical?      
     
So he is risen above—      
passing through,      
watching me      
down below      
hearing, uplifted?      
     
The Christ I hear is the one      
who has his hands open,      
showing where a nail      
has not pierced his flesh.      
     
Those who know      
how others made it up—      
that in the air he is not dead      
still as he died for us.      
     
And even how, with every      
commercial gift shop      
figurine of Jesus      
(which still sells cheap),     
shows on each face     
that even the plaster one      
wistfully hopes      
simply to be heard.