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.