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We stopped writing about Easter

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

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