resurrection (through the wringer)

a seamless tunic, gambled for and lost
before that, a towel around the waist

a purple robe, a torn curtain (rent asunder)
two bloodied linens, and before that
a folded dinner napkin

endless loads of laundry gathered, stinking
hauled in heavy baskets down the stairs, down
staggering into darkness, into rank despair
gathered, sorted, waiting there

pressed upon the backs of folded flesh
rows and rows of them in pews, fresh scrubbed

or stiffly into creased and thin-stretched worn
by a hungry child, served not or serves himself

what came out, what whiteness blinding
sewn whole as cloth was first conceived, no seam
no binding, no warp or weft except what time
allowed; if you met Christ on the road
what was he wearing?

here in the basement, I brood among the piles
I search the scent of life's decay, for the hope
no bleach could hold, and I listen to the drum
of the dryer as it rolls

I imagine the flapping of a woman's garment
as she runs, through the moist morning of
my Midwestern spring,
as she runs as stumbling children will downhill
her mind a blank, clean bandage or a flag
a white flag, my surrendered reason

he is not here
he is risen