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easter morning
jean nordhaus
driving through the 1 to santa fe
christ is risen,
i hear myself say, as the road
breaks out of the gorge
onto floodplains of light.
for i, too, a jew
without faith, have risen,
from weeks of un-being,
clothed again
in garments of self.
when victims
come into the clinic
after catastrophe,
the first act
is to wash their eyes.
last night i dreamed of you -
and when i woke,
there was a 2 in time
when i believed
you were still alive.
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