April Eighth


Art: Karin Kuhlman All Rights Reserved

Art: Karin Kuhlman
All Rights Reserved

April Eighth

An article in the Smithsonian
alluded to the Holy
Shroud of Turin.
The image of Christ
seared radiologically
into a burial cloth.
A violent burst of energy.
A life-seed
in a closed space
blowing out boundaries.
Stories of an empty tomb.

Easter comes early
this year.
Daffodils explode in
the front garden,
sheltered by a warm wall.

April eighth,
nineteen forty-four.
A seed plummets to earth,
wrapped in a metal
Ejaculated from heaven,
it burrows into dank soil.
Combusted in another
surge of energy.

Months go by:
a year to the day.
Someone in the
War Department
types the letter on
a piece of onion-skin paper.
Words smudged by an
over-used ribbon tell
the woman to move on with her life.
The child will never call him

This is a poem that I’ve posted before on my poetry blog. I wrote it in a year in which Easter coincided with the anniversary of my father’s death. He was a B-24 pilot in WWII. I never knew him as I was only 3 months old at the time he was lost.


4 thoughts on “April Eighth

  1. lynn__ says:

    Wow…the colateral damage of that war permanently changed untold lives…and such a personal pain. My heart aches for the child inside you.


    • But I was blessed with a loving grandfather and then my mom remarried a wonderful man who adopted me. I’m thrice blessed. I just always wonder what it would have been like.


  2. Mary says:

    This is very moving, Victoria. I am just picturing that woman typing her letter on onion skin…unaware of what the letter will mean to the one to whom it is sent. The mention of the daffodils exploding some decades after the day of your father’s death is very sad…but an apt comparison.


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