the saturday before easter

his bones sat and waited.

growing stiff and groaning silent.

and i clean my kitchen

and wonder through tears

what to do with his silence.

and i wonder what it means

to hope in the midst of sufferings,

and i wonder if steven thought if

all men who ended in crucifixion would rise?

and i wonder how shaky hope became

when the three were thrown in a fire?

all this i think about on a saturday

afternoon preparing for my easter brunch-

is it that all women who are bent over

from infirmity that will stand tall again?

this, this resurrection, not a metaphor

or a pastel painting,

but this movement of blood and cells

after three days of death.

this death that was real and true

and this life that burst forth into it.

these things cannot be softened.

because, i, a girl, whose blood and cells are moving

am a lazarus in need of a resurrection.