“Sicut erat in principio, et nunc et semper, et in saecula saeculorum”

Crashing through stardrives
washed for the grave
comet grit showers us

as once it simmered up
early soups from which
our swampish It began.

But soon we won’t be
to espouse over bones
our own Antigones

weeping in the districts where we refuge.

The Last Disaster
began in a stir
of light and gravity
ringings and swinging booms
taking it to our doing;
wars’ world this, our pluck
undone as undertakers
move in a mauve remoteness
through lowlands,
the Buddha parts of brains
silent as beehives.

Now: cold flocks fold tabernacles mattered, meant by minds
deserts tear through, shaping a Lord across times
thrice-promised by the Very Hand that withered the fig,
millions thrilled into light, printing themselves on dust

until vesper holds still
as our star-craft is christened
and we conspire with ancient ratios

to hurl us
into genesis
once again.

Easter Sunday, 2015


Image Credit:manatorn
Eric Elshtain conducts poetry workshops with hospitalized children in two Chicago area hospitals through Snow City Arts and teaches literature at Better Boys Foundation. His writing has appeared in many print and online journals, such as American Letters & Commentary, Denver Quarterly, Chicago Review, McSweeney’s, Ploughshares, Certain Circuits, TextSound, Truck, and others. The author of several books, Elshtain edits Beard of Bees Press.

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