The First Easter

The bells did not peal
No one put pineapples on a ham
Or turned their eggs over to the devil
Before putting on their best

Their Vaseline-shined shoes
Their Derby-worthy hats
Their stiff-starched crinolines
That itch like poison ivy in the pews

The hymnals weren’t cracked open
Place held open by a church bulletin
Cue cards for prayers mumbled once
Maybe twice a year

Easter is not a spectacle
A triumphal parade for a belligerent Caesar
Not a day at Ascot for idolators
To eat bread and wine before brunch

No, it is a private revelation
When all that is broken reassembles
Alone, in a garden
When hope’s tendrils cling to what cannot be held

When the student finally understands
Everything that confounded
And like a curtain torn top to bottom
The rent soul cries out
“Rabboni!”