ANOTHER RESURRECTION OF BODY

Something cold and spidery smeared across my face, 

leaving residues of itself on the pillow my head rested 

itself, before putting out the forest fire of romance I 

was dining in. My eyelids scampered away from one 

another. The anger swelling at the tip of my lips crumpled 

when it confronted the usually smiles-ridden face 

challenging it; I sighed. “We should go welcome Jesus," she 

breathed; I smelled the anger she knotted—like Mama does 

the tip of her wrapper when money hides in it—artistically

under a smile . Not daring to breathe out my anger, I tottered

to the restroom; I'd be expected in no more than one-sixth of 

an hour, my shaggy hair deflated to the style Christ agrees to.

In three more hours, my butt would be glued to a too-low 

stool, as I unmask—with the craftiness a sculptor uses in 

curling the afro of a sculpture—the innards of a score tuber 

of yams, in wait for two score people I never learnt their 

name. Before proceeding to drag two gallons ten times 

between ten houses. Have I whispered of the dumpsite of 

plates I will recycle just as the night begins its accession? 

These are the Easter eggs I munch every time Christ visits.