(Caravaggio)
The dead God is almost too heavy to lift,
but still must be carried to the burial site.
He has a mother. She peers down at him
as if she has lost something
and is looking hard for it as she stares
into his pale face. The background
is black. It must be night. No one knows
the best way to carry him.
Death is so awkward.
A young man cries out. His trembling mouth
is wide open, his delicate wrist
as naked as flesh can be
when it is needing to be touched by someone.
Then there is that creature in the corner (it could be
any of us) who peers down
on the scene, trying to take it in
as best he can, how far away life
finally carries us from life.
Jim Moore’s most recent book of poetry is Prognosis (Graywolf). He lives in Minneapolis and Spoleto, Italy, with his wife, the photographer JoAnn Verburg. Other poems are forthcoming in the New York Review of Books and Plume.
Image: Caravaggio, The Entombment of Christ, 1603-1604. Wikipedia.
