Springtime was Christ and crocuses, the dark,
Chilled, silent soil awaiting miracles.
The choir’s repertoire warms up the crowd
Before the main event: the Catholic
Oscars called Easter. Resurrection is
Top-billed. Folks come to church because the hymns,
That mise-en-scène help them imagine what
They cannot do themselves: rise from the dead.
Religions are like vaudeville. Fame’s about
The gimmick and your soundbite, like the trick
When Jesus goes “ta-dah!” Walk-on players —
Like Judas, neighborhood back-stabber — don’t
Inspire composers, earn endorsement checks
With double commas. They get written out.
“Best Actress” goes to Mary, I’m thinking
While singing Stabat Mater in Latin,
Sad mother, standing by His crucifix,
Still unaware He will enjoy return
Engagements each year, a long-running act.
But where’s this Holy Ghost supposed to be?
Part of the Trinity, yet kept offstage;
Stained glass depictions, sculptors pass him by.
But maybe ghosts are camera shy? Why,
Unlike bro Jesus, fussed about at Yule,
Is Ghost deprived of birthdays? That skews cruel.
He seems excluded from their pack — ghosted.
Does God stage-manage heaven’s best reveals?
I’m looking at St. George, victorious.
His foot restrains the dragon, who’s been clowned.
He waits for cheers and clapping to die down.
Descending from the choir loft, throats sore,
Our shadows thrown against the solid wall,
Projected like obedient phantoms
Transferring to another realm, we leave,
Escaping the gravitational
Pull of eternal fame as nobodies.
My mind’s unholy attic quiets down.
