The Poetry of Joan Houlihan

Reconstructing Easter

We convene here, listen to Uncle B
in his backward-pointing baseball cap
lit with stories, muttering of loss—
a low and meaningless animal sound
we take for talk.

This Easter we've put it all behind us
and, spoon-fed with the whipped
milk of childhood, we revel in
what is gone: the rock of the undiscussed.

Mother's cataract and Father's altered
look give us nothing to say is wrong.
We lean into this—
where the rock was struck
and the air inside was stopped;

where unhinged stems root
and flower—
because that which was unknown,
is not; and that which cannot,
must rise and walk.

          First published in Caffeine Destiny

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