Easter was the old North <br />Goddess of the dawn. <br />She rises daily in the East <br />And yearly in spring for the great <br /> <br />Paschal candle of the sun. <br />Her name lingers like a spot <br />Of gravy in the figured vestment <br />Of the language of the Britains. <br /> <br />Her totem the randy bunny. <br />Our very Thursdays and Wednesdays <br />Are stained by syllables of thunder <br />And Woden's frenzy. <br /> <br />O my fellow-patriots loyal to this <br />Our modern world of high heels, <br />Vaccination, brain surgery— <br />May they pass over us, the old <br /> <br />Jovial raptors, Apollonian flayers, <br />Embodiments. Egg-hunt, <br />Crucifixion. Supper of encrypted <br />Dishes: bitter, unrisen, a platter <br /> <br />Compass of martyrdom, <br />Ground-up apples and walnuts <br />In sweet wine to embody mortar <br />Of affliction, babies for bricks. <br /> <br />Legible traces of the species <br />That devises the angel of death <br />Sailing over our doorpost <br />Smeared with sacrifice.<br /><br />Robert Pinsky<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/paschal/
