On waking, He makes His bed

John 20:7

There is one thing left to learn: the body— how it feels, perfected: Colder? The stone perfectly Cold. Frigid. And hard. . . . No, Adamantine. The cloth on his face, knotty,

threads coarser under perfect fingers. He folds it. Corner to corner, precise, symmetric. (The first act of Godhood is domestic.) Like manna, how those perfect linen squares

would show up in his drawer—an Ima’s love. He counts the ragged strips, imagining Lazarus, his bound head unraveling like a torch, stumbling from the cave,

hoping for something new, less heavy. Then the last—the one with blood—enclosing the stain—finale of his blood—seeing: a poppy: open, closed. Like the curve

of his palm: closed, open. The scars imprinted like two coins: Look, Abba, remember what I’ve bought. A prick of relief: I am still myself. Wonders

how else they will know him, perfect? Not his eyes, his gait, his voice. He is alone in this perfection, this beauty: one imperfect thing, indelible—his body.