Archive 04/23/11 - (2)

 

   

Easter Beach

                                                                  

 

This Easter beach service is attended by sun-worshiping believers.

The fierce, priestly breeze speaks with a thick Latino accent.

Its silent spaces, lacunas, caesuras

Are pierced with the theological litanies of screaming-kid parishioners.

Their parents' preachings not to wade too deep into the waves' baleens

Or touch the bobbing or shore-stranded jellyfish

Go auspiciously unheeded, mislistened to.

Their scriptural rituals drift into glide slopes of screeching gulls,

Disappear, like trash, into the grotesquely overpopulated sandscape.

 

Meanwhile, the two of us pale-skinned, English-articulating church elders

Prostrate ourselves, as obliviously and innocuously as possible,

Under our trembling umbrella, in our unfolded chairs,

Which hide themselves in its seaweed-ravaged shadows.

Soon, you're lost in the hotly acclaimed Harlan Coben mystery thriller,

I in Paul Celan: Poet, Survivor, Jew.

Somehow, this all seems a most appropriate Easter-weekend way

Of celebrating mayhem, chaos, murder, and resurrection —

God's blessings in conflict with trespassing man's dispossessed soul.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

04/23/11 - (2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 

 
   
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