from Risen
by Charles Nevsimal

from Section II.

When I was a boy, the only God I knew was summertime

and sunrises six hours before I’d wake—

Ecto Cooler Kool-Aid stain on my lips and knee-hole jeans worn with

sole-smiling Ponies laced loose ’round ankles so comfortable I could run—

whole neighborhood of boys praising shade-tree elms

searching the back 40 for day-off redemption,

running graceful through field and forest paths

steam-rolled by feet that forgot the diction of afternoon recess

on days when arithmetic classes divided hourglass clocks by the sum of our joy—

I didn’t know yet the stale taste of Eucharist

nor the sweet grape watered-down optional wine—

I didn’t know the significance of Matthew

or the Sermon on the Mount—

Matthew then to me was my friend who lived across the street

where milkweed used to grow wilder than wheat—

whose father was FBI

who caught us spying one night watching workers leave site

hoping to loot lumber for fortresses we built in trees—

whose sister became my first adolescent love—

Elizabeth

known to me now as wife to Zechariah

mother of John the Baptist—

she threw a dead snake at me as a joke laughing

hailing the end of my laze-of-day love—

her hand dirty with death

her hand which I never held—

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