We stopped writing about Easter
When our tree ran out of gas;
The eggs warmed; the crosses burned.
Buns sued Maine. The bunny made ominous
Threats towards Greenland. The parade
Turned itself into a hatchet, and dug itself out
Of the grave. The land gave up its dead,
And not in a good way. Friday went backwards,
And the living died like they were in dubious prison
For the criminally bald. The mild weather
Spoke ill of old Europe, and the wind sang
About the merry days of ruination in the markets.
The cherry blossoms stopped at every border,
To pay for themselves with their own vanishing;
Fear went freelance like a befurred farrier,
The dangling promises hung themselves out to dry,
And no one woke to find anything sweet hidden
In plain sight, it was all very unclear where any
Of us were; and then Romans handed us nails,
Some non-Canadian wood, ordered us
To vote with our blows, which brought in a landslide
Of blood and flesh, pouring out of the human basket,
As if one of our fellow men was a grocery list,
Being pulled out of its own skin, to make pain
The national dessert, in the moment of golden praise.
Maundy Thursday, Easter, 2025
London
Comments