PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The wailers and the flautists had begun

to put on their performances as the

shrouded bier, and the battered corpse it bore,

was carried through the streets of Nain and toward

the tombs outside of town.  I stood among

the last of those who followed, as did the

Roman whose eyes, I think, were moist with tears;

a waste of tears for Neaniskos, that

unabashed queer whose face and ribs we bashed

in good.  The mess concealed beneath that shroud

should have been strung up in the marketplace

as warning to all boywhores and the men

and boys who fancied their companionship.

Alas, the laws of God do not permit

a body to remain strung up and on

display after sundown of any day.

The bier moved on, too slowly if you ask

me:  I was anxious to attend the lunch

given thereafter in the memory

of Neaniskos.  By that time, they had

carried the bier and Neaniskos near

the city's gate.  Then, suddenly, out of

the crowd, a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped forth;

looking distinguished though he wore a robe

made out of the same homespun fabric that

(with the exception of the Roman) clothed

us all.  A nobleness resided on the man's

brow, and although his face expressed a real

compassion for the widowed mother's grief,

his gaze seemed to look toward a time beyond

the pall of sorrow, death and its graveyard.

The sun was high, the air was hot; and soon

the stench of Neaniskos would begin

to gag us all, as his lifestyle had gagged

me, and also my friends---neither of whom

followed the funeral procession now.

The unknown, and as yet, unnamed man drew

near to the bier, and said---with gentle voice---

to Neaniskos' mother, "Weep not."  Then,

he touched the bier, and uttered just these words:

"Young man, I say to you . . . arise."  At that

moment, the shroud stirred, just a little bit;

then Neaniskos sat up on the bier---

not mutilated, not mangled, not bruised;

with all of his beauty restored to him.

He spoke:  I was too shocked to hear, aghast

that this man---certainly the prophet that

the Roman (who was weeping for the joy)

had been seeking---had raised a faggot up

to new life (fingers and toes seemingly

healed intact), and, taking him by the hand,

delivered him into his mother's arms.

All those who had gathered to mourn began

to glorify God with their praises, and

to sing some of the Psalms of David (yes!,

David again).  But, as I turned away

(and I admit entertaining thoughts

about a second murder straightaway),

the prophet---though he stood across the road---

seemed to gaze into my eyes, and I heard,

within my mind (or, maybe, in my soul),

"If you do that unto any of these,

"my brethren, you have done it unto me."

Others around me were shouting about

a great prophet risen among us, and

that God had visited His people.  Both

of my friends left Nain under cover of

darkness:  one became a thief and was

arrested by the Romans and sentenced

to pull a galley's oar until he died.

The other, so I hear, had come into

a small inheritance and drank himself

into a stupor, during which his heart

gave out before the booze did.  As for me,

I am not sorry for what I had done

to Neaniskos (though I do not dare

approach him; anyhow, he has left Nain

to follow that great prophet who raised him---

healed and alive that once was cold and stiff).

Sometimes I walk around the tombs outside

Nain's precincts, and I wonder if I, too,

will be raised after death, and to what life.

Starward

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