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On Pesach

Small silver face

out of the gray:

 

How did you get here?

I always knew I had the right

 

to be an existentialist.

 

We are stomping,

on the bosom of Satan.

 

Our cold-blooded hands

holding flags.

 

I have seen it happen.

Satan fell behind,

 

clumsy on a treadmill,

flopped.

 

It was a taxi’s shadow above us:

 

Mary held Jesus,

the bus speeding, NOT IN SERVICE.



Posted 04/03/15
Inspired by Fanny Howe- most of the lines are taken from the titles of each poem in her book On The Ground (Graywolf Press, 2014). A version of this poem was written for PoMoSco (http://www.pomosco.com)
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