Easter in Isolation

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Easter in Isolation

              Easter Sunday, 2020

What better picture of the tangled state
           of current things than this: A table set
with resurrection china, April flowers
            as the focal centerpiece, an empty corner
for a little sister quarantined, alone,  
on Missionary Ridge. When in 
a single breath are intertwined
(and inextricably) the sticky scent 
of cinnamon rolls with respiratory virus,

one has to question when, or maybe if, 
it all will filter out the way it should. It’s strange, 
to put it lightly, these hymns of celebration
pulsing from the throats of tombs enclosed
with cotton swatches. Still, it must 
be evidence of something worth
our time—this manifesting forth,
regardless of the lambent circumstance,
a chanticleerian rejoicing, if with a twilight tinge.

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