Kenneth Pobo
UP FROM THE GRAVE He arose we sang many a Sunday. Jesus had a triumph. My own barely registered— getting up for school, swishing peas down with milk. I wondered how would Jesus look freshly risen? Shiny and fresh, as if he had gotten a perm and a manicure, not tacked up on some cross, speared, thorn-skulled. We didn’t want to picture his close-up without him looking his best. He had to be Fred Astaire dancing to glory, not one more done-in corpse freshly animated. The organ pumped and we walked out into suburbia, ready for baseball, Parchisi, and fried chicken.
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