Noli me tangere
Jesus said to her, “Do not cling to me…”
The pair are pale as paper,
their eyes like the empty tomb,
his spotted hand speculates hers
barely reaching from her breast,
fingers fluttering up to his,
all making for so sedate a scene
as if the clawing nails, the clamping
arms, at his waist the warm wet
breath as if she would bury
her very heart in him,
had been traded in translation.
That’s unless this is a moment more –
his hovering hand
a final grazing grace?