"Mary."
No explanation.
No sermon.
Miriam.
Only the one word
by which she is recognized.
The string of sounds
begun with both lips pressed together
the quick cascade down a mountainslide
(he is almost here,
after all)
into the rolling turn,
the palacial palatal glide
the skid to stop
both lips pressed together again.
MIR-yam.
Then it clicks:
This man knows.
All it took was a name.
He knew
that all it would take
is a name
to show her he knew
her.
Sales people know this, too,
Customer service people know this,
Good doctors use your name,
Your friends call you what your friends call you,
Your parents gave you what they wanted you to be known by.
Your God
knows you.
Will it not be just as
brief
when we see you?
Won't we be just as disoriented,
not having fully grasped the Scripture,
not quite used to the idea
that we don't end when we die,
that you truly did resolve
the core threat to our lives?
"Mary."
Won't we be just
as surprised?