I. death
I imagine the bottle cracks open like an egg.
I don’t know what dead miracle she thinks to find inside of it, only that it comes to life again in my mother’s hands.
The egg, I mean. The bottle.
I wasn’t raised in the name of the Lord, but my mother was.
On the night before Easter, she becomes a child
again. She dyes an egg red as wine,
she hides it in the kitchen, she finds it,
a careless and forgotten joy spilling from her hands.
She pours it into a glass, and when
the glass drops, the glass breaks, and then her skin breaks, birthing a flood of blood,
a resurrection in reverse.
Here is when I hear its syncopated hatching.
I see the blood and think it wine,
I wonder if she will lick it from the floor,
suck the dye back out from the egg.
Instead, she cries — not in pain, as a child
might, she is a mother now, and
there is still so much left to hide before the morning.
I beg her to stop, to staunch the wine. I mean,
the blood. I mean, the crying.
She nests color in the shadows,
and I follow her, licking up the splattered trail with a rag
before it stains, before my brother wakes up
in the morning and sees something
neither of us understand, we children who never found the Lord hidden under a bush in the backyard
or slicking the kitchen floor.
In the morning, we hunt: my brother searching
for what my mother hid for or from him, me
for anything dry, any messy nest
still smeared on the floor. The search never seems to end.
Even she has forgotten where she put her hands.
Somehow, there is always another egg.

II. resurrection
There is always another egg. Somehow,
even she has forgotten where she put her hands.
The search never seems to end for
anything dry, any messy nest
still smeared on the floor. In the morning, we
hunt: my brother searching
for what my mother hid for or from him, me,
hidden under a bush in the backyard
or slicking the kitchen floor.
Neither of us understand, we children
who never found the Lord. My brother wakes up
and sees something before it stains,
before I follow her, licking up the splattered trail
with a rag as she nests color in the shadows.
I mean, the crying. I mean, the blood, the wine.
I beg her to stop, to staunch the morning.
There is still so much left to hide
before pain, as a child might.
She is a mother now, and instead
she cries — not from the egg. I wonder
if she will lick it from the floor, suck the dye
back out and think it wine. I see the blood,
its syncopated hatching.
Here is when I hear a resurrection
in reverse, birthing a flood of blood.
Her skin breaks, and then the glass breaks,
and when the glass drops
she pours it into a glass,
a careless and forgotten joy spilling from her
hands. She finds it, she hides it in the kitchen,
an egg red as wine. She dyes and she becomes
a child again, on the night before Easter.
I wasn’t raised in the name of the Lord,
but my mother was. I mean, the bottle,
the egg, it comes to life again
in my mother’s hands. I don’t know what dead miracle
she thinks to find inside of it, only that I imagine the bottle cracks open, like an egg.