Surprisingly, I have not written a whole lot of poems that I would call Easter poems. Just a few. The one below happens to be one of my favorites. I know that I posted it a couple months ago, but, because it is Easter evening (and because I'm too tired to search for another poem), I'm going to do a repeat.
Think of it as a rebroadcast of your favorite episode of Saint Marty.
Pange Lingua Gloriosi
("Sing My Tongue the Savior's Glory")
by: Martin Achatz
On Holy Saturday, I put my daughter
To sleep and think of death.
Tonight, milk is her enemy.
She stands in her crib, dark eyes watering,
Her chin slick with fear. I lift her,
Strip off her wet pajamas, wash her fevered body
With a cold cloth. She shivers, yet lies still,
Accepting the bath in silence. I dress her,
Fresh and lotioned, place her back inside the crib
My wife has just cleaned, cover her with a quilt,
And watch her settle into the pillows
Like a sleeping fish.
Before Easter, these quiet moments
In the dark, there is this:
I listen to my daughter's breaths,
As Mary might have listened to her son's,
Like stars in the night.
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