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
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.