Easter Sunday

5. What if?

“What if God were one of us/Just a slob like one of us”
— Joan Osbourne, “One of Us”

I’d meet Jesus for latte at Luna Cafe,
my treat, and we’d chat for a bit about

the current state of affairs, bemoan the
emphasis on killing over resurrection, on

putting up walls and dropping bombs
instead of planting community gardens or

housing refugees.
Maybe poetry would come up:

how no one really reads it anymore,
how writing it feels like a precious

waste of time. Or maybe we’d cover
the destruction of the Humanities, or just

the ever elusive Human. In any case, I’m sure
He’s an excellent listener, a top psychologist,

the kind of mind at home with the bird’s eye view
as well as the lowly weeds. I’m sure He’s

the sort of friend you cherish — the kind you leave
after hours of spirited talk

reluctantly, but glowing with happiness, with
inner lift, with a sense of being oh so fortunate

to know a truly beautiful soul.

Easter Sunday

I’m thinking today about Dad, oddly. It’s a day for celebrating the return of life, of resurrection, of hope an promise in the face of inevitable death. For so long, I was angry at him, thought of him as everything that I had to fight against to save my life, to be independent and free. But I realize now that it could have been a hell of a lot worse.

A flash of red in the backyard -- 

weaving through the cedar -- 
the cardinal who chose the tree
for his home

back for the season. 
Harbinger of hope,
comfort, messages from 

those we've loved
breaking through the veil
to reach us again, 

or the blood 
of Christ on this 
bright Easter morning,

signal of sure renewal, 
transformation,
new beginnings, 

energy, passion, 
monogamy,
the bright bird

wears our projections with
courageous indifference,
stitching 

invisible strings
maple to cedar to
flowering pear, 

singing liquid 
and clear, 
calling his mate: I

choose you I
choose you I
choose you