Wake up, young man, and look east:
the crimson-capped clouds call out
the golden-crowned kinglet sings
a song of protest, of praise.
Take your child to the green ash
press your hands against its scars:
it stands in strength, nonetheless—
I swear I’ve seen its hands clap.
Follow your wife through the fields
of wild quinine, walk slowly:
the flowers are stained white by
the robes of the Gardener.
Easter is inappropriate
the empty tomb an affront:
the stone rolls further, running
in shame from its failed sealing.
Cover image by Hasan Albari
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