Saturday, March 26, 2016

the clocks broke

Holy Saturday

my son is chopping carrots
because in the depths of
crazy interfaith cross border
witchy lesbian hippie lands
slow cooked root vegetables
scream FESTAL more than
roast lamb

"i'm pretending Jesus isn't dead,"
a friend says
"i can't handle it. liturgically or actually."

my roman catholic property manager
along with his son
are out back
i watch him limping
slow across the gravel
as step by agonising step
he spring cleans in the yard

the sky is grey and uniform
inside, it's too cold to be warm
too warm to do anything about it

my kids are going to protest
the paving of their favourite beach
my sister hopes there will be bulldozers
she wants to chain herself to something

time is not moving
they didn't mention it in John but
when He breathed His last
the clocks broke

i've been sitting here,
kitchen table
cup of lukewarm tea
literally, forever

time is not moving.
how can it,
under the circumstances?

the breaker of chains
will free the hands of the clock
until then,
i will be sitting here 

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