Resurrection House;

It says this on the side of that building

on the corner of 11th Street and Broadway.

Holiest of holy homesteads, where from

the front facade of the sermon you can’t

distinguish between the engine brake

and a gunshot. And then there’s that

little island that suggests it’s a roundabout—

where you shuttle in from the expressway

or take an alternate route from Hwy 20 or 12.

Bring your tired, bring your meek, to me:

grand opportunist channeling another worldly

word,

to find yourself next to Him.

­

Just because I’m awake doesn’t mean I’m alive.

And just because it says Resurrection, that

doesn’t mean I or anyone similar can be brought

back to life after we’ve killed off our minds,

our dreams, our potential.

A table for two or that which resembles a Last Supper,

where we consumed days like lobster.

Or maybe it has to do entirely with Christ.

­

Lord forgive me,­

I can’t help but note these towering nodes,

and the able-bodied addendum;

how porous these wounds on the petal,

and how many tears drip down from the metal.