Palm Sunday, 2020
There is no triumphal procession
today, no cheering mass of crowds: no press
of bodies, sharing warmth and mingling breath.
The streets are quiet and empty
save a pair or two, walking carefully separate.
We do not stand outside waving palms
cut from someone’s garden, the children
restless, vying for the ‘best one’, ready
to wave them, singing, and enter
as Jesus enters Jerusalem.
See, he says, I make all things new.
Today, I am in front of my laptop (old
as they are made to age, silver case greyed
with shed skin, guilty crumbs among the keys).
I forgot to brush my hair or dress
and on Youtube, eight hundred souls are waiting
for the livestream to start.
The Archbishop mouths a blessing: the sound
isn’t working, and the chat is full of people
repeating it like a response. Somewhere
in the First Reading (“I did not cover my face
against insult and spittle.”) they stop
to fix what’s wrong, and begin again.
In my flat, two cats watch as I stand
and sit, and kneel. I sing: My God, my God
why have you abandoned me? and demand
Crucify him! even though the priest is reading
the shortened Passion by himself.
He looks into the camera, and asks
us to lift our palms for blessing.
I wasn’t prepared. I fling open the screen door
and snatch up a weed from the courtyard
(I meant to pull those out a year ago). Its burry seeds
cling to my fingers. The root’s intact.
It isn’t much
to lay beneath a donkey’s hooves.
Lord, I am not worthy
that you should enter under my roof.
Familiar words, never consciously learned,
deepen their meaning now. Of course
God is here, and always has been: still
sometimes I forget to welcome him.
Come in, Lord: I’m sorry
about the unswept floor and dirty dishes
and all the dim corners
where I put things I want to ignore.
It’s no way to treat a guest, much less You:
who roll up Your sleeves and get to work.
A mystery there in bread and wine
and here, in the absence of either:
physical touch is dangerous these days.
I cannot take Your Body into my hands
but Yours caress all the same.
My throat is tight, a stinging under eyelids.
You enter Your Kingdom
this year with no glad hosanna cry.
We will stand at the foot of Your Cross
six feet away from each other, a host
holding on to gossamer threads of Wi-Fi.
You will walk alone from the Tomb
as ever
and we will celebrate in electric alleluias.
