Not having been raised in a family that really “did” Easter (the fourth Thursday in November being the only demonstrably non-pagan holiday prompted our family’s all-out celebration of it, though believing gratitude to be a directive from on high helped, as well firmly believing gratitude has nothing whatsoever to do with America, its fabled friendships with the disenfranchised people it later murdered wholesale, nor with those whose extreme piety created odd sartorial choices that excluded jewelry, but included ginormous buckles), my Sunday was spent listening to Berlioz’s Te Deum and ironing table linens. A very hot iron, flattening wrinkles, a hiss of the spray bottle, the drum of rain against the skylight – and briefly, a sense of order, of peace. All very fleeting and imaginary, yes. But, for a moment, all was right in the world.
& the crooked made straight
control from chaos
order, in a puff of steam
imposed perfection