Sun blows snow through a hole in slate grey sky.
The highway glows, a wet, white-light tunnel.
We speed toward the apocalypse –
Alexis riding shotgun, me at the wheel.
So, there’s snow during the apocalypse…
Um, I hate to break it to you, but that’s ash,
From all the bodies. Burning in Hell.
Oh. What do I know?
The answers to two of the Four Questions:
On this night we eat only unleavened bread,
and bitter herbs remind us of our slavery.
But about Easter? I know very little.
On Good Friday a Jewish friend takes me to
a dance show called The Screaming Popes.
We drive the costume designer around town,
pestering her with Christianity questions:
So what happens on Good Friday?
Jesus gets crucified.
Why do they call it Good then?
Shouldn’t it be Bad Friday, Sad Friday?
Total Bummer, That Really Sucks Friday.
What Are We Going To Do Now Friday.
Are the stores open on Friday?
And if so, what time do they close?
Saturday night at The Communist’s Daughter
a jazzy trio plays in the window.
The bartender is also the singer
and all four tables are full.
So why is this night different from all other nights?
After the last trumpet solo the place empties out.
Surely Easter and its opiates have no sway
over Communist’s Daughter patrons?
It’s the biggest game of the year,
I explain to an American friend, who’s also a writer.
He lives in Toronto now, but can’t root for the Leafs.
Not least of all for grammatical reasons.
Despite much beer drinking and yelling
Easter Monday brings no resurrection
for either the Habs or the Leaves.
Hockey fans hang their heads.
And where does the Easter Bunny fit into all this?
Surely, when giant bunnies lay chocolate eggs
and then hide them from children
the end times are near.
. . . . .
heeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
˜lxs