Spirituals on Easter Sunday.

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She was singing Take me to the Water…

 

Yes. Take me to the water

with a voice made of glass.

Raise the goosebumps on my forearms,

while leading me to some new resurrection.

 

The older ladies in silk dresses and straw hats

raised theirs heads above closed eyes

to catch every echo starting from the roots,

Wiped the holy splash and sweat rolling off

the scalp

 

Was nineteen (or even earlier),

the last time before I turned

drowsy and uninspired as every reading

turned to just ink stains? I had forgotten

to use four walls, stained glass

windows and incense to meditate

for deeper answers still

untouchable  to the wise.

 

It’s been a week since the revival.

I’m  searching inside the new dream I entered

after slumber, but what’s seen and unseen

are talking. Even silence is leaving

a memory for the baptized.

 

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