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.