BY HEIDI FAITH

Still

(My son was born

in the first trimester. 

His birth day is Good Friday)

He healed disease.

He taught people to see.

But — or is it ‘and’ —

the most important thing He did in His life

was die.

Water and blood poured out

and the mess and the labor

of his dying was finished.

His mother peered in to look

and was told

He is not here.

Just the shell,

  just the garment.

He is dead and we call the day Good.

He has inscribed me in His palm.

I cup him

my broken egg, in my hand.

Water and blood poured out

and the mess and the labor of his dying finished,

we call the birth day Happy.

Just the shell.

The cracked hope I still try to hold together

with clasped hands over still tear spilling eyes.

We forget to talk about

      the broken, hard stuff

And hop to

have a cheerful Easter.

It’s been a couple thousand years

or has it been a few billion?

And we dress up the story still.

Forgive me, it’s been a day

or has it been a decade?

And I hold my son’s

life. death. birth.

    still.