Sunday, April 16, 2017

NaPoWriMo, Day Sixteen, Poem Fifteen


This is the Saturday before Easter.
Is this an ash day? There ought to be ash.
Something we can hope will come back to life.

We killed Jesus yesterday. The sentence is life,
and to show up as he's welcomed back on Easter,
you barely awake, your eyes dark as ash

with circles, ash taste on your tongue and ash
on your hands, dirty after a life
of uprooting so many plants for Easter.

Jesus hates Easter plants, soil tasting like ash, too close to life.

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