Sestina for Low Sunday

Well, I’m sorry; it’s true. We took to our heels
and ran like scared rabbits. Rumors
said they were looking for us so we hid.
What would you do? We were scared stiff, frightened
half out of our wits. And he hadn’t a ghost
after his arrest. Enemies appeared

everywhere, it seemed to us. They appeared
as curious children or idle men. Heels
in the streets chased us like tormented ghosts,
like wind-blown scraps of paper to this room.
Remember the room; the Supper? Still frightened,
we trusted women to feed us. They could hide

in their veils but we could show neither hide
nor hair of ourselves. We heard of appearances
of dead people. The city was frightened.
What did it mean? There is no healing
From death. We sat and stared, ruminating
Until Sunday afternoon when a ghost --

what else could it be but a ghost?
-- jumped up before us; everyone shied
like caged birds to one corner of the room;
and he glowed with every appearance
of good health and happiness, his wounds healed
though they gaped like open mouths. “Frightening!”

that’s all I can say. And we were frightened.
And then he smiled and spoke to us, the ghost,
I mean, spoke to us and something like healing
came over us, and there was no need to hide
anymore. Just like that. And the room
with his breath smelled wholesome. Holy! He appeared --

It was Jesus, you see. He appeared,
and he wasn’t at all dead. “Don’t be frightened.”
(Easy for him to say.) Then the rumors
came back to us. The stories of ghosts
walking in daylight, the soldiers hiding
as the sun rose, and all the people healed

Trust me, the Man heals; the rumors are true;
No more hiding for me, nor being frightened;
Not since the ghost, the holy one, appeared.