for Holy Saturday

What way is there left to choose
after what’s been done 
to who we’ve chosen? 

This is not what I expected, Abba— 
you said come, costly, 
but all I could see was a new road
to the tree of life on a far hill,
those thousands of desperate feet 
leaping like deer and 
I didn’t believe you. 

Now you tell me wait, joy,
but all I can see is a shorn tree, 
ivory bones the only moon in 
noonday darkness, 
what’s left of the garden 
from knives and scattering feet
and I still don’t believe you.

But these coals and hillside skin
I do remember, and the fire 
that lived low in your eyes 
when you said Abba, 

when you asked your questions too 
when the sun had dipped 
so bloody low and
you chose.

Fran Westwood is an emerging Canadian poet writing from Toronto. She writes poems that help her pay attention, often on finding belonging and bridges in diverse landscapes.

Fran’s work has been published by Contemporary Verse 2, the Poetry Pub and For Women Who Roar. She has pieces forthcoming in Prairie Fire, Inanna's Canadian Women Studies journal and in a 2021 collection by Flying Ketchup Press.