Palm Sunday

Always the sky keeps expanding. Wide as America’s brave margins, wide as my loneliness in the Middle West. I lean against a dust cloud behind us, the glory sinking into a muted timberline. I am drunk with longing. The wind is singing— my drunken friend, the wind, hurls sweet curses at my face. We have learned to love this road, which lies down like pythons, refuses to forgive our excesses, refuses to consider us kin. Our driver’s sign overhead reads,Jesus is my co-pilot. Jesus who crossed the city gates of his ancestors on a road carpeted by palms. Our goodtime driver must know this— he drives with abandon, despite our fragile cargo: scholars and accountants, prophets and exiles all the same to him. The road, which suggests things, is tired of ceremony. It lies down to sleep like the snow. Lie down TallMountain, lie down Serafin Syquia, lie down Li-Young, lie down Divakaruni, lie down Eman Lacaba, lie down pilgrims of the open road. Shameless, we gather our light jackets in balls. We rest our heads, our faces upturned to a squall of stars. I near the end, my soul recites. O loneliness, my body responds. This empty road is a house where no one lives. What strange fire we bring when we come to this house.