Good Friday

By Margaret Melva Oldroyd

Christ’s halo had dimmed

From its once golden hue

To a more muted copper.

And the puffy eyes around him

Were not quite as round

As the prints on his hands

And not quite as red as

his mother’s robe.

He was held upright by the others limbs

Because their preoccupied hands

Held a Balanchine grace

While praying and exclaiming and mourning.

And even in death

He projected light

That the dark rocks behind him

Hungrily consumed.

By Margaret Melva Oldroyd