Here is a poem.
It is not new, but it is Eastery.
Long Island, Bahamas: An Easter Meditation (two of the 5 parts)
4. Easter Sunday: Remembrance
The congregation’s young and old; few in between.
A young man shakes my hand. His palm is hard—
a worker’s palm—and hopeful for a wife.
We honour woman-courage on this day:
an empty tomb before Black Mary’s gaze.
The women who aren’t girls all let themselves wear fat
that cloaks hard muscle, big hearts, brass voices.
Their eyes are soft. Their green-eyed children
inhabit skins the shades of sand, of soil,
of treebark, eggshell, cedar, earth, red loam.
The braveheart women weep, and laugh.
The rain falls with the Gospel.
Christ is gone, the angel sings,
and the silver rain falls down.
5. Easter Monday: The North Side
This Atlantic: bluer than sacrament, brighter than pain,
supplier of buoy-pots, candlewax, quilt-scraps, wrecks,
ballastbricks for chimneystoves, old tyres for shoes,
string and winecasks and even, maybe, bones—
the things ships cast off when passing by
or sinking down.
The resurrection side.
A blue hole swallows the unwary, offers up
its perfect mystery. A thousand feet from shore
a shelf dives undersea a thousand fathoms deep.
The North Side ridge looks down. The water’s stripes
bleed turquoise, blue, and indigo.
You stare into the risen sun until you know.