1 poem | Colin Dodds

(Spill-O’s Easter Fever)

Easter came again and afflicted Spill-O
with the agonizing vertigo
that makes the Christians sing
like tomcats in eternity

No dramamine would suffice, only dreams

A woman carried his fevered and ethereal form
through town on her slender shoulders,
like she’d carry a child to a parade

She told him Christ wasn’t a phoenix,
an old rebirthing god with a new name
but something scary and, despite all the talk,

She promised Spill-O redemption
from the inevitable tragedy of the individual—
not through a reabsorption into God,
but in some less-imaginable manner

She told him that no one knew
where Christ was leading and that they still don’t
She told Spill-O to change his name to Spill-Oer

She said this story, his story,
and all stories had a name
It is called “What.”
She said that the fever breaks here

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