Salt Into His Wounds

Extremely difficult to choose a photo for today, but went for this one because of the relevance of a poem about resurrection.

This is the lady who lives across the alley from us; I asked her today if she'd look after the sweet peas I've planted (in extra) while we were away, at which point M fetched our wedding photo to show her what sweet peas looked like. She then came back with three photos in frames to show us. The first of a good looking young man - her son, she said; he's died. I asked what happened; killed himself, she said. The second, her husband, also dead. The third, herself when young. She moved to Mora to be near her cousin, who died as well - so she spends her days alone. She's glad we're here to keep her company, she said. The sadness is almost unbearable to think about; thank God for resurrection hope...

"Food for risen bodies - II", by Michael Symmons Roberts

On that final night, his meal was formal:
lamb with bitter leaves of endive, chervil,
bread with olive oil and jars of wine.

Now on Tiberias' shores he grills
a carp and catfish breakfast on a charcoal fire.
This is not hunger, this is resurrection:

he eats because he can, and wants to
taste the scales, the moist flakes of the sea,
to rub the salt into his wounds.