She is Risen

She rises from her nightmare and lowers
her pink and blue face to the sink, scrubs,
rinses, banishes the dark night.
In the mirror she tries to see what others see.

She dresses in new clothes as surrender songs
sing in her head. She whispers secrets God already knows:
It is time to break roof, swing free of this rocking chair
and these mouse-colored walls.

She quietly closes the door behind her
and leaves the building like an untethered
helium balloon, unfocused on worn-out
adages and daily crucifixions.

She joins the parade, lifts her banner high,
flicks the gadfly off her broken shoulder,
dancing, twirling, the sun on her
scarified skin, she marches on.

At the end of the line she sits foursquare
in the mercy seat, arms up, hands out.
She is risen indeed, and like the three wise men
she will go home by another way.