AWAITING THE RESURRECTION OF THE DEAD

She holds up two fingers

for the garçon. Pitcher of

sangria. Slices of clementine

float in the Precious Blood.

The ice clinks. Red sweat on the glass.

I cannot shake the feeling

that you will return after all,

shaking your head as you unwind

the grave-clothes,

saying boy, that was weird.

Hours gather on you

like pale green on copper.

But ankle-deep Joshua

staggered the sun

between his fingertips like a blood orange,

taut skin ready to burst.

Speculators, furtive on Golgotha,

tapped the Savior like a maple tree

and sold the dark wine.

Long-stemmed glasses. People dine

al fresco. On the television, a blond bouffant,

an arm in suit cloth sawing the air.

Robert Hamilton is a poet and English professor living in Texas. His chapbook, Heart Trouble, was published by Ghost City Press in 2018, and recent poetry appears in Posit and The Fictional Café.