Resurrection Party



You ask me to take the Christ costume

out of the closet. It’s been a year


since your consciousness went

missing—stunned out of you


into the road: collision of machine & boy,

no pulse in your wrists, your ghost


gasping. Crash doesn’t capture it: your halo

ringing as it bounced from gutter


to sidewalk, singing down concrete

end over end. I wonder, did you throw


your shoulder against your eyelids, wanting

to burst through those last slits


of light? Your recollection of this

is dead, as is the seven days


after. Yes, the neuro-surgeons were pleased

when you answered: your name, the year, but didn’t


know your whereabouts. You told us in nature, lying

hazily in chirping forest, or at a tattoo parlor


getting ink on your abdomen: the half-arch

of a rainbow. Sometimes, you’d remember


you’re in the neuro ICU & we’d

celebrate. Funny—the detachment of body


and brain. I smile when I see the party photos

you post online: you, dressed as Christ,


thorny crown, death metal makeup,

bottle of Hennessey in your hand.