Easter

I love you on paper

On the page you read pure pleasure

Not like real life, flesh and blood imperfection.

I am run over with feeling these days -

words, images, music and laughter converge

in a personal resurrection, of sorts.

In a season designed for sacrifice,

can I coopt this for myself, heathen that I am?

Run over with feeling as I am?

My little Catholic grandma asks if her prayers count,

since I don’t go to church, but everyone needs a novena, 
I say. And didn’t they once give to the pagan babies?

An organized effort to save the ones in foreign places who didn’t

know the true way?

After twenty years in church, I’m not saved, except by myself –

a smooth stretch of highway a pew,

a mix cd the only hymnal.

What can you do? If it doesn’t speak, it doesn’t speak.

There’s nowhere else to go on Sunday but the farmer’s market

and when the sun shines through the open roof,

can't that be God speaking, even if the collection basket

belongs to a Pennsylvania farmer,

who may want to be in church, but can’t, because he has mouths to

feed.

Call and response is difficult in these times, as hungry as we are

for connection, as wary as we are of the hand reaching out to shake,

which may just as easily be reaching for our wallet as our soul.

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