Brick on Easter Sunday
You’re carelessly cast
but
you clean up nice,
your family laboring to
look uniform but merely
warred and weather-torn:
the row of you
disjointed from
crumbling mortar and
chipping corner.
You know, trying to stay
together
despite appearances.
But you seem to wear
your ruddy best,
bathed from last night’s
rain:
pumiced and porous for
scrubbing and respiring
or for keeping a bit of
that
holy water
that beat you into
rapture
while the sky opened up
in thunder.
