Hill Country Writer

Passion Play

From a step stool my girl drops tabs in 6 cups,
red, yellow, green, orange, blue, and pink.
She tells the Easter story while we wait
for shells to stain. "This is Jesus,"
C.J. begins. She's got a red M&M doll,
a McDonald's Happy Meal prize. "Here's the cross,"
she says and displays her Popsicle stick
creation from the Baptist egg hunt.
The M&M doll has a clip--so trendy kids
can hang him from their back pack zipper,
I guess. No marketing exec for junk or fast food
foresaw the candy man of sorrows crucified
on my kitchen table, cups of vinegar hissing
disdain around him. In her gospel
Big Bird stands in for both Marys and visits
the crook of my arm. “Here, Daddy, be the tomb.”
Elmo rises a creepy soft angel squeezed, tickled
and giggling against my white washed shoulder
"He is not here! He is risen!"
But our Jesus has not. The storyteller forgot
the hanging candy doll--or worse, I fear--
prefers to see him hang there
an acceptable suggestion of sacrifice
reminding us both to dip our hands
in the bunny bowl for Easter M&Ms,
lilies stamped where Ms should be.
Colored shells bleed on our palms
and the candy Christ speaks,
“This is my body. Take and eat.”

HillCountryWriter Category: Poetry
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