AMONG THE IRISES by Wendy Ingersoll

Every Easter weekend at our farm by the river
the bunny hid jellybeans.
My sister and I found them on dusty window sills,
behind the salt and pepper shakers, between

napkins in the wooden basket
on the long trestle table that was my grandmother's.
We'd pop them quickly in our mouths-
sweet was rare in our family. After the hunt

I always went to church with my cousin Rachel.
I'd dress up in my violet velveteen dress, white gloves,
white straw hat with the little veil.
My dad would take our picture,

waving among the irises running riot by the tractor shed.
Going to church made Easter
more than just a chocolate binge followed by
inevitable egg salad. I felt like normal people

from a normal family that didn't scream or throw dishes.
The church had stained-glass windows parading the Gospels.
During the sermon I studied the glass people -- so tasteful,
halos in place, with hair

that didn't frizz.
I fell in love with church.
I don't now understand
what god I was worshiping,

surely not the one who attended my wedding,
Father Perkin's god who took my groom aside
and warned him not to wed a Protestant.
Nor was my childhood god the one who

shrugged his shoulders when my sister
lost a second child, as if to say
What do you expect me to do about it?
And not the god who assigned my dad to lose

his memories, pockets of his brain turned
holey, everything sifting through. So many
gods there are out there,
like the wild geese who filled the sky flying

home those Easter weekends when I was young.
Who can tell which god to pick to pray to,
or if our one true god will just know
how to find us where we hide?

To read more poetry by Wendy Ingersoll go to www.depoetry.com/poets/200706/ingersollwendy.html.