All churches smell of biography
At three in the morning.
The gibbous moon squints
As water from the priest’s brush
Hits us like Hosanna.
We pick the paska with our fingers,
Coveting bits of candied fruit
To hoard on our plates.
A sin some say,
Though God bid us to save treasure for later.
If Jesus rose, why shouldn’t they?
Rooted in the rubble of revolt
As mushrooms sprout from devastation
Waiting for some angel to roll
Away the stone.
Painted pysanky guard the square.
Imagine if they all hatched at once!
An orange sky cacophonous with wings
Clambering to heaven,
And we left with candy-colored shells
Useless as confetti after the celebration.
