Easter Sunday

and we find him in his bed
a rug       pulled to his chin
slippers       toppled Pisas
eyes       crusty and weeping.

We soothe them with drops
ask for hearing aids
and through the high-pitched whistling
weave our questions.

I hold a chocolate chalice
break off pieces       place the wafers
on his tongue       his mouth closing over
oh,     such       sweet       grace

and he gives thanks       to all the angels
and saints        the hovering
holograms at his bed
and asks for more

a pilgrim        stripped
to sensory purity        caught
in sacramental rewind.

The cocoa suns        are melting
their slipped light throbs        through
stagnant blood
piece by piece        the chalice        transmuting.

Out of the hive of his sticky
mouth        striped bees are a tumble
of words        alighting on our stamen faces.

Easter Sunday        and he has entered the room.

Julie Watts (Western Australia)

First published in Julie’s book Honey & Hemlock, Sunline Press 2013.

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