Martha’s Mustard Seed

My brother’s body will smell,
like the corpse flower,
his bone marrow
drying in his bones
to mingle with the earth.
How can fragrance come from
four days dead,
messy cloth-embedded flesh?

My mustard seed faith aches
to squash the ambiguous
agony of plotting the time and place
of his resurrection.
one word,
one touch,
the stake was high,
why?

Yet casting off restraint,
coursed tears affirmed
Your love for him,
moving You
to call
for the stone to be removed.

Come forth, Martha.
Come forth, Martha.