Touch me and see, because a ghost does not
have flesh and bones as you can see I have.
—Luke 24:39
So easily startled by vastness, dark
distances, arrival, they were terrified by him
that night glimmering in their midst.
Jesus knew they needed to finger the familiar
relief of bones under warm flesh to believe
the body, pale star
studding their peripheral vision, a specter
rattling even Peter, who had seen the not-
ghost of him before, walking the sea. Jesus
knew their need to know he hungered, tasted
the tilapia baked in olive oil with salt, lemon,
tangy fingers to mouth.
We also mistake for shade
his spilling, think we grasp the ghost of him
across the universe—filaments of light,
nebular veils. His words cast the contours,
recognizable until we see the not-
dead of him, our terrified minds
opened to enormity, but gently. How he fishes,
the rock and creak of boat, rough coils of net,
convinces us to touch
the wooden hull, that we know this rising
scent of salt on interstellar wind, drifting shape
of wave, of star, simple as flesh and blood.
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