To Marinelle on Easter

You say, crucifixion is weird and irrelevant to this age.

I wonder if it’s less weird to to be dragged to death behind a truck,

Or to be tied to a fence and beaten to a pulp,

Or to be made to stand in front of a cannon and shot to pieces

Like my mother’s uncle was in 1935, for slapping an Englishman.

At least there’s no false hope of resurrection in these cases, you say.

I wonder if it is a good thing that we give up on our dead

And not expect them to rise in some way.

Imagine what a force of peace and justice they would be

If millions of Jews, blacks, and gays were to rise again from the dead.

To do what, you ask, to sit at the right hand of a non-existent God?

No, to stay in our hearts and never let us forget

That it is partly our silence that crucified them.

In that case I believe in resurrection, too, you say.

Then how about going to church with me this Sunday, I ask.

If you don’t mind, you say, I’d rather have a beer on the porch.

(April 2002)