Resurrection by Lisa Zaran

Silent afternoon, nothing unusual
with the weather except a possible
chance of rain. Probably not.

I wash my car anyhow.
An entire world portraits itself
outdoors. Children hustle past
with little faces like thumbprints
on Gods memory.

I roll up the pant legs of my jeans,
get to the gladness of bubbles, white foam
on a red automobile. Think about the cost
of things. My daughters schooling, my sons
habits. My husbands countenance, even though

countenance is such an old fashioned word.
I practice thinness. Pretend to be so far gone
that even those who've never taken the time to notice,
notice me. How thin she is, they might exclaim.
I hardly recognize her elements.

I think I'll grow up now. Stop pretending
I am so far gone that love is an awkward myth.
I know it exists, can blossom
in bones so old, the body surrounding them
might burst into color
like a rose.

Take away love and our earth is a tomb, Browning wrote.

The scene now after the rain: children reemerge
as the chorus of their voices
sound like thunderclaps, faces shine
through broken clouds.

No chance of desultory weather.
No spot on redemption.
In my grief I think I'll re-wash my car.


Lisa Zaran, Arizona, USA