Easter 2018

that first Easter after she died was —

the talk of life and rebirth
like lemon juice squeezed down my whipped and bloody back

an access point of zero
and no maneuver by which to yield

hope, oxygenated,
perched on the branches outside
inescapable
and incapable of penetration

there was nothing for me
except her, moaning
her, weeping
her, tenderly dying

and no one asked for her permission
and no one asked for mine

when the course is interrupted
and the birds have lost their tongues
there are no promises to keep

it is Good Friday all year round
and even now, some days, too