A POEM A DAY

Spent the morning staying in bed
while Jesus rose from the dead.

Growing up, Easter Sunday was such a production.
The basket, the outfit, the pictures, the church functions.

Now, pictures of my little cousins hunting cascarones
in their front yards, the confetti cracked on their good clothes.

Smiles big as a Resurrection Sunday feast at a loved one’s
house. For me, it was grandmas. Lockhart, TX. We’d run

All over the front yard, baskets in hand, determined to find
something besides our name that we could call mine.

Spent the whole morning in dress clothes
just so I could go run in the dirt with mis primos.

Some elder says a prayer over the hot food, we call it grace.
My mom made me a plate, told me to go, find my place.

Long ago, before I was born, I’m sure my mom had a plan
for days like this, probably carved the moment out by hand.

Today, with nowhere to go, I reminisce.
Still trying to love from afar all the people I miss.