Above the kitchen smells
and soiled clothes, she climbed
toward the patch of blue,
the rungs fitting neatly
into the arch of each foot.
This was one ritual
for which she needed no prayer,
lowering herself into reflected sky.
The wind caught the curtain circling the tub.
She looked toward the cedars
darkening the hillside, their shadows
lengthening like spilled wine.
A man yells he’s Christ risen
from the dead. He’s pacing the block
for an angel who’s late.
“Easter’s not for another week,” my husband says,
as if the man were a confused actor
in a passion play. When I wake again,
the air is clear of saviors,
the pre-dawn dark content
to let the blind lead the blind.
Paulette Guerin is building a tiny cabin in Arkansas and blogging about it at pauletteguerinbane.wordpress.com. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Glassworks, Main Street Rag, Stonecoast Review, and elsewhere. Her chapbook is Polishing Silver.