Friday, April 18, 2014

Poem a Day: 18

Resurrection Vacation

Good Friday appears like any other: sunlight
wan, temperatures wishy-washy, grass green
only in ironic patches, flowers waiting (in theory)
for more propitious circumstances to show their
delicate faces. School across the city has been

cancelled -- thus the children next door smack
a basketball with irregular force against the side
of our crumbling house. I must put my cluttered
house in a sort of order, expecting JoAnn's visit,
her ministrations with vacuum and bucket ...

... I must clean a bit for the welcome cleaner,
as any other Friday not obliterated by ice or
snow. Robins call to each other from still-bare
branches; little girls screech at each other
across the empty street, voices rising like

flesh-eating bandsaws, surgical instruments
determined to get at another girl's heart through
her hard breastbone.  When did Jesus roll away
the stone? I can't remember the order of events,
either in my own life or mythology. Time

stretches and stalls. Was Friday good because
of suffering and revenge? Or has Jesus already
died, forsaken and stabbed?  Is Friday when
Jesus is tided into the tomb?  And are we waiting
for some sign of a new life amidst the old?

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