when
the world’s first
hen-rooster breathed
its last breath under a dome
of thick darkness, feeling black
vapors drape on its sepia feathers,
did it sing-breathe wan acceptance
or rage? and did it see a light tunnel
above gushing glow from the pierced
dome? or did its triduum vision burst
as sheet lightning, first slicing out of
one crack and then from thousands,
so that the darkness fragmented,
falling as the god-bird rose
from its paschal nest


Poet’s Note:

For another shape poem celebrating Easter, try The Fate of Easter Eggs.