Resurrection
by Joani Reese
On the Third Day
Hemingway would probably reconstruct
his ruined head like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle
then ease down the snow belted Ketchum road.
Kicking a can, he'd stroll into the next decade
dragging the severed rack of a ten point buck,
in search of another clean, well-lighted place.
might glance the dewed bank as he ascends feet first
to the Washington Avenue bridge. Mistress Bradstreet
would take his hand, lead him to the nearest podium,
his Pulitzer pressed under an arm, a new poem
scarifying patterns in his boozy brain.
wavers on the prow, his tented hands lifted
to the Mexican sky. He steps back from the abyss,
inner eye envisioning the ink sip of a fountain pen,
the hard, hot brain frenzy that sends phrases marching
toward another bridge between oblivion and art.
for a newer model, one in candy apple red with doll's eyes
winking from the radio dials while Plath entwines
with Otto in the back seat. The three could motor east,
race to beat the rising sun, anxious to be the first
to see the angel roll back the stone.
Hemingway would probably reconstruct
his ruined head like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle
then ease down the snow belted Ketchum road.
Kicking a can, he'd stroll into the next decade
dragging the severed rack of a ten point buck,
in search of another clean, well-lighted place.
Like a film strip run backward, Berryman's fingertips
might glance the dewed bank as he ascends feet first
to the Washington Avenue bridge. Mistress Bradstreet
would take his hand, lead him to the nearest podium,
his Pulitzer pressed under an arm, a new poem
scarifying patterns in his boozy brain.
Crane, velvet bathrobe billowing behind,
wavers on the prow, his tented hands lifted
to the Mexican sky. He steps back from the abyss,
inner eye envisioning the ink sip of a fountain pen,
the hard, hot brain frenzy that sends phrases marching
toward another bridge between oblivion and art.
Sexton could reduce her carbon footprint, wait
for a newer model, one in candy apple red with doll's eyes
winking from the radio dials while Plath entwines
with Otto in the back seat. The three could motor east,
race to beat the rising sun, anxious to be the first
to see the angel roll back the stone.
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Author's Note
And now for my annual Easter fairy tale. Thanks to Michelle Elvy and Sam Rasnake for liking this poem. Happy vegetation myth to all.
Other stories by Joani Reese
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I like that two-way "bridge between oblivion and art" and that resurrection is " a film strip run backward." Good poem, Joani.
*
This is the one piece I feel like I've always wanted to see on paper (or virtually, anyway) but never had the courage or the skill to do myself.
I especially like the ending, because I feel that stylistically, it's a nod to 20th century confessionalism. (May not have been intended, but that's what I got).*
Powerful moments in this piece. Strong work. One of your best.
"Crane, velvet bathrobe billowing behind,
wavers on the prow, his tented hands lifted
to the Mexican sky. He steps back from the abyss,
inner eye envisioning the ink sip of a fountain pen,
the hard, hot brain frenzy that sends phrases marching
toward another bridge between oblivion and art."
*
*
But then, you already know that.
I love the ending of this poem.
Not bad. Just another J. Reese masterpiece. A+ / *
"dragging the severed rack of a ten point buck,
in search of another clean, well-lighted place." oh, yeah!*
* Vivid and stunning language and imagery
I love the ending. *
Thanks, all. I do think had some of these folks had great, honest friends, they may have decided differently.
Wonderful poem. I especially liked:
"ink sip of a fountain pen" *
...the angel rolls back the stone...
Some healing moments here. *
Yes *
"Crane, velvet bathrobe billowing behind,
wavers on the prow, his tented hands lifted
to the Mexican sky"
I lingered here. Love this image.
Daniel, James, Matthew, Christian, and Carol, thank you.
Love this immensely.
Man, this is skillful. Thanks..