Legacy

Easter-less, with no risen lord proffering

sumptuous promises in which to exult,

I pen secular verses on this sodden day,

intimate with dispassionate words, their

questionable legacies, and naught else.

I have longed to be Christian, to finger

a cross around my thin neck, or Catholic,

rubbing raw some shimmery beads

without labeling it magical thinking.

Hope of resurrection must be so bracing!

Who can live without such assurance?

I can and do; such a circumstance is too

fantastical to embrace now;

the brain recoils from such a tremendous

outrageous endowment. Thus,

Easter-less, will I set with the sun slumping

in the only heaven I know,

the one striated each evening,

red as fresh blood.

Copyright Julianza Shavin 2008