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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this:
search previous next tag category expand menu location phone mail time cart zoom edit close