Now what, Jesus?
Resurrection is hard work,
even though death is not the enemy —
the Chinese take-out menus,
car service cards and locksmith flyers
accumulating on my stoop are.
I’m too lazy to throw them away,
but I cry when I see them.
I think of your mom when I cry.
She always looked nice as the statue
I used to cry in front of,
in the church across the street
that I don’t go to anymore.
It’s a church everyone’s heard of,
but a church way past its glory,
although it might be some other church’s glory now,
maybe one that used to be a shipping container,
like a former assistant buyer in juniors’ activewear,
now making a mark in trailer home sales.
Did she pray to you for help making that change?
When I left the state to follow that lonely fixed star
shining long and low on the sanitary canal,
I was a redneck cygnet among savage drakes
fronting a Styx tribute band.
I prayed to you,
and I added some sax.
You must’ve liked that,
because when the tornado swept through the county
all the houses but mine were destroyed.
On the other hand, they haven’t hired me back
at Liquor Factory Outlet yet.
Honestly, I am not convinced you are or were
a prophet, let alone God, but when I talk to you
I sound like an oud.
Maybe that’s the miracle.