Napo 2

I got up early today with the idea of writing a poem. And it worked! :)

This is a little poem about my Easter Sunday.

Resurrection, Easter Morning

It’s Easter morning and the car won’t start.

I’m just a woman witnessing this hopeless

Scene as spring buzzes around me,

as the wind billows my pastel dress,

as the flowers make the world move,

pushing winter’s frowns into smiles,

pushing the laziness of hibernation

into action, pushing the barren world

to life again. But without a pair of wheels,

I’m stuck, a bud that won’t open,

A broken child of spring

Who can’t make her way

To witness the ritual of miracle

Of a man rising up from the dead.

I imagine now, the service is beginning.

The plate is sent around. My husband cusses,

Rolls up the starched sleeves of his last good shirt,

And leans beneath the hood, settling in

For the long morning of finding out

What the Hell went wrong with this

Bucket of rust and sin. Together,

He thinks that we can make this right.

He has faith. I have my doubts.

He demands tools. A wrench. A rachet.

Hammer to smash his frustration

To pieces. I know the drill.

It’s something we perform

Often with a car that’s on the fritz.

The clock ticks. We’re going to miss it.

I imagine now, the choir sings

as the grackles around me sqwuak.

Now, hipster Jesus emerges

From the tomb with his guitar

In hand. I fiddle with a pair of spark plugs

With a prayer beneath my tongue

That this will work. Now, the preacher

Opens up his lungs, declares

The miracle of resurrection

And though I’m miles away

I feel a certain stirring in my heart

As the car coughs and coughs and coughs

Before it roars to life again.

My husband laughs and takes me in his arms.

I wipe my grease-stained hands against my skirt

That mark it like stigmata of our morning,

Take in the smells of him, his best cologne

Mixed with sweat, frustration, and joy.

He says, fuck church. It’s crowded anyway

On Easter Sunday.

I say, let’s get some ice cream instead.