Sample Poems from Dead Man, by Daniel Priest

WHEN THEY CRUCIFIED MY LORD

First, the holes in the lawn. Every year they grubbed
and chiseled out the red clay with borrowed shovels,
then all together lifted, dropped the heavy trunks
of three crosses into place out front of the church.
Easter weekend dressed in loincloths
and took turns being crucified or stood around
the makeshift tomb wearing Roman soldier costumes,
asking kids who wandered by if they knew
who Jesus was. Once a man forgot to eat
and fainted from his cross. They waved
at passing traffic, ignored the catcalls and
thrown beer cans, smiled like they imagined
Christ would smile. At night around an oil drum
full of fire they tried to stay awake. Jesus snuck out
for bathroom breaks. Together they waited.
Then Sunday morning the congregation gathered
at the grave, carried the man playing dead,
playing Our Lord into church and laid him out
on stage while someone sang an Easter medley
over prerecorded music. He stood up, raised
his arms. Everyone applauded. Christ is risen
indeed. Then more singing, then the sermon
and lunch someplace open Sundays.
                                                                          But not
this year. A deacon stands up before the preaching,
fumbles with the microphone. He apologizes, says
he isn't much for public speaking. He'd helped
to put the crosses up the week before. After everyone
went home he climbed up with a staple gun
and fastened loops of rope around the crossbeams.
They got to have something to hold on to, he says,
unless you plan to nail em up there. He shot
the fat steel staples deep into the first cross.
Didn't bat an eye. Shimmied up the second,
began to think about nailing the thieves in place
on either side of Christ, stapling his rope where
their wrists would be. Gave him the willies.
And he starts to tell about the last cross, how it was
to climb up and drive the staples home,
but he chokes mid-word and begins to sob,
body-shaking cries that bend him halfway to
the floor, thick red forearms wrapped across his face.
He doesn't finish--the preacher has to help him
off the stage. But everyone knows how it ends.
Traffic runs past. He cradles his staple gun,
looks up. His Savior looks down. He cries.
He climbs slowly, careful not to jostle Christ, rests
his head against the heavy pressure-treated wood
as if it were his Lord's shoulder. I have to.
Oh God I can’t. Jesus looks at him. He can't
look back. He holds the rope in place, thinks
This is his hand. Brings the gun up. Thonk.
God forgive me. Once more. The other side.
I'm so sorry Lord. I can’t let you fall.


BURNING THE BODY

Lieutenant!
This corpse will not stop burning!
--Galway Kinnell, “The Dead Shall Be Raised Incorruptible”

This time they get it right. The soldiers
bring the body down themselves,
hold the women back with spears and axe
the crossbeam into kindling. They light a fire
and throw the body on an hour after sunset.
No one's going to say they reinflated
this balloon. I bet you think it doesn't burn.
It does. It won't stop. His skin smokes
like unextinguished houses, like a field of oil wells
on fire, and the women who've pressed close
to mourn him join the soldiers on their knees
and retch. Flame crawls in one ear and sets
his brain ablaze. The eyes run outwards,
tongue shrivels like a salted slug. Fire comes
out the sockets, out the mouth. It won't stop
burning. At dawn the soldiers start to worry,
start to beat the fire with wet sacks. It eats the sacks.
It won't stop burning. Smoke exclaims it
in the morning sky. They heave water up the hill
two men to a barrel, pour it on the body.
But it won't stop, won't stop burning.


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