Easter Sunday

I’ll try anything once

I have been to the church with a steeple
and the church of smoke and mirrors
and the church of nature herself.

One year I spent Easter at a friend’s house
and the Bunny found me there anyway.

All my eggs were always in the basket
of my mother’s magic. She died for me
and didn’t wait three days to rise again.

In Manhattan I don’t go to church but
I’ll try anything once.
Quaker silent meeting,
spin class cult,
hot yoga rebirth.

Today at the Dimes Square “Devotional Listening” party we sit in a circle
and rock back and forth, people puddling
over the scuffed hardwood floors.
It means something different to everyone.
I’ll try anything once.

I’ve tried all the denominations:
Presbyterian Veggie Tales
and Methodist ashes
and Catholic hymns.

For my high school boyfriend
I switched churches,
for a man I met last year
I tried to love religion again.

I was a child of God
but I am a woman of myself.

They beat the drums
like the preacher beat the pulpit
like I used to beat up myself.

The Easter Bunny could find me anywhere.

I deserved chocolate eggs
and marshmallows covered in
colored granular sugar
over a bed of pastel crinkle cut.

Now I deserve to stretch my legs,
cradle a warm drink,
and regret being hard on my mother.

But I am devoted.
I have a religious belief in myself.

When I die will I be invited to the good place?
What would I say if I was?
Heaven knows
I’ll try anything once.