If that ain't love: a poem.
Easter traditions and questions
Easter reminds some of tradition.
It reminds me of change.
And can I ask,
what even is Easter?
When I gave up soda
when I was a kid
pretending to be religious
like my Catholic friends,
my mom would put a can of cold Dr. Pepper
in my Easter basket next to the seasonal Reese's,
which are my favorite kind of eggs,
if that ain’t love.
I'd take the first few sips and burp uncontrollably
the carbonation sticking to my insides and erupting out,
the way reintroducing something
you shouldn't consume anyway
leaves you uncomfortable and
unable to process
the trauma of such a sick indulgence.
On holy week in high school
we got high and broke open glow sticks,
toxic lightning bugs flung on the walls
and an old tube tv,
and our young pale skin,
since abusing our bodies was the only way
we knew how to get free
of our hard little lives.
We danced to the song 'Good Friday'
by WHY? and worshipped
as the communion rum made its way back up,
and then our sick little bodies
crashed on the floor
with the empty glow stick garbage
and on the third day, we rose again
and atoned for our sins over ibuprofen
and crunchwrap supremes
as we planned our next homegrown rave.
A decade later my fingers
were too cold to hammer on the notes
when we met on the shore at sunrise
to celebrate the resurrection as a family.
I printed out 'It Is Well With My Soul’,
because I was always forgetting the chords
and my place.
My place.
My place.
Is it my place
to call us to task on Easter?
When we would prefer to just consider
our outfits and meals and songs?
Because I still want to believe in love.
I still want to believe in reconciliation.
I still want to believe in liberation.
I happen to still want to believe in peace.
Even when we can't see it.
Today I see
worshippers attacked in Al Aqsa Mosque
and in the streets of the West Bank by the IDF,
where simply being Palestinian is a crime.
I see people lying lifeless
in the streets of Bucha,
while Russia exerts its deadly power
to strangle Ukraine to death.
I see the face of Patrick Lyoya
who survived a war in DRC,
only to be executed
in Michigan by American police.
I see people gunned down
from Brooklyn to Tel Aviv
while we wonder:
beef or chicken?
8am or 10am service?
Dr. Pepper or Mr. Pibb?
Meanwhile, bullets and bombs
hunt and destroy
those created in the image
of beauty and love.
I'm asking how long, Oh Lord?
Are you really as violentconsumeristsexistracistmisogynisthomophobictransphobiccomplementarianpatriarchalempiricalcapitalistevangelicalcolonistexclusivenationalistcondemning
as some say?
Am I out of line to even question?
To ring this tiny bell that might
spell liberation for someone?
On Resurrection Sunday, God,
did you get up and walk away, or no?
And do you care about these bodies
or just the one?
How are we capable of so much
destruction with and of them?
But for God’s sake,
you’re welcome to our egg hunt.
Happy Easter. Ramadan Mubarak. Chag Pesach Sameach. Happy Vaisakhi. Happy Hanuman Jayanti. Happy Pink Moon. Happy Spring. Happy whatever, as long as it’s love,
