Easter Sunday

(Behind the altar, brightly backlit,
bored with bondage, and Unamused,
the pornographic Christ presides.
Embarrassed, (not humbled), I avert my eyes
from his withered figure, high on the wall.)

We gather to hear, in this hallowed space,
the strange story of that beloved disciple;
and of Mary Magdalene, mother, whore;
and the vacant vault where their savior was.
No body there, only hidden hope,
wrapped in ragged rolls of cloth.
Is faith so simple: a hollow tomb?
Then my grave overflows, filled with bones.

And yet, faithless, I feel I am never
more at home than here, in the house
of god: our offerings echo in the emptiness.

Who will hear our halleluiahs?

The arcs and angles of the architecture
drawing my drifting eyes upward.
I lose myself in lines and silence;
I will not wonder at the deafness of angels,
nor the cold comfort of an open tomb.

The sermon is short, a small blessing;
little miracles mean more
to me than sacrifice and faceless Fathers.

Outside, heralding the onset of spring,
the snow recedes in the sun. In rows
and lines of brightly blooming crocuses
I read, "Resurrection time."
I believe in nothing, if not in this.
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I wrote this last year, but apparently never posted it here; there is no snow on the ground now, and I did not go to church today.

I think I wish I had.