On Holy Thursday they found her body
snaking down the Eel River, blond hair
hiding decomposed flesh. Her family
mourned her on Good Friday —
The Unabomber sits in jail, just charged.
A math professor gone bad; theorems turned
into action, into horrible corollaries.
Rescuers search for our Commerce Secretary
who did not know what broke when
his military jet mistook a mountain for a cloud.
Too much has happened this week.
My colleagues call this a good news day.
They are spared from running fluff on the cover.
This all sells. People want to know —
Was she nude? Did she use drugs?
Did he really survive on parsnips?
Did the Bosnians sabotage the plane?
I chose not to sit and pray
to remember the day He died
while others stood by wanting to know
when he would die or if
the weight of his hung life,
the nail holes, the knife wound
in his side or the disgrace
would erase his life.
I had a deadline
for the magazine I write
and really no deadline at all other
than my wanting Easter Day off
and the week to play,
to enjoy my son’s fourth birthday.
Forgive me my vanity, my values,
O Lord, I pray;
Forgive me for my work —
the glory I take in my son’s joy,
the fear I feel for him, for my daughter,
for my soul’s struggle for perfection.
I am too human.
I would watch you die,
write it down, write
how the blood streaked your side like wine
and your mother wept into her veil,
while I asked the guards
to spell their names for me
so that I could get it right.