It doesn’t make sense.
It never made sense but,
I liked him, and more -
I felt complete, listening
to him, being
with him.

I didn’t like the other followers so much,
Maybe Mary and a couple of the quieter ones,
but Peter’s constant blustering and posturing,
his wild swordplay and then, after the arrest,
his noisy denials, distancing himself from the teacher, 
even as he died.

He was dead. I saw that. With the women.
He bled.
The women followed his broken body;
I left.

I wandered, lost.
I walked
and walked.
My thoughts, thick and chaotic,
roiled and battered me,
but I couldn’t forget
him.

It never made ‘sense’; 
there was no logic or plan but
when I was travelling with him
it felt right.
Sometimes, I even liked Peter.

After I found myself walking
toward Jerusalem again,
I remembered
I’d left my bag in the upper room.
I needed my stuff. I needed to leave.

They were still there.
I could hear them before I got up the stairs;
they sounded excited, even happy.
I could hear Peter’s voice rising about the rest,
and I was furious.

I opened the door.
They turned and all laughing and yelling:
“He’s alive! We’ve seen him.”

What idiots! I saw him die while they were hiding.
I saw the nail-marks, 
the wound in his side, 
his body’s release
and collapse.
I saw his blood stop.
I told them that and rushed away,
choking on their words, their joy.

I remembered his stories of being in the desert,
And went there to pray.
I remembered him, and his stories, 
his tolerance of Peter and the other jostling ones.
And I still needed my bag.

On the Sabbath, I went back.
They were there again, quieter
but joyful. They
welcomed me. 
My heart opened.

Then, beyond sense,

He is here.