It is the time when a young man's fancy turns to thoughts that would make a whore puke.

On Easter, my own grandmother dies.
I cook a plum jam-glazed and unlucky turkey
(who does not see from the standpoint of Christian Orthodoxy)
which friends do not make it over to eat. This is snow country.
I write my sister to tell her that I've been crying a lot lately.
God is crucified, dead, and buried.
The ground is frozen but He needs no gravedigger.
God is cruel. He prefers to sleep.
God is a coward. He prefers to sleep.
For His is the kingdom of indifference,
And ours is frustration,

despair,

and enclosure

forever.

On Easter,
The ground is a gizzard gravy gray-brown .
The only green grass is Easter Grass
from Eggsville, USA (discounted at Reliable Drug).
Buds don't bud.
Cocoons don't open.
It is the time when everything is restless.
It is the time when we hear the wind wander under the window,
and we whisper back, "Defrost, defrost. Awaken,"
and we hear in our minds
the tiptoe step between self-sabotage and self-murder,
and we hear the choice echo, "which one? which one?"
It is the time when you realize, my God,
death is the meat and potatoes; life is gravy.
A squirrel throws itself against the back porch screen door
and you realize
It is time to take everything you ever thought and stop thinking it.
A deer starves
And we hear the mind.