The Eleventh Hour / Jesse K. Butler
On Great and Holy Saturday night,
I’m at the children’s hospital
cradling your long, limp weight—
you’ve rarely seemed so little.
We’re here amid the side effects
of a world that’s suddenly sickened:
the clouded eyes above the masks,
the reek of disinfectant,
the makeshift surge wards. And down below
it all, a soft and holy hum—
the resurrection that’s singing up through
the cold linoleum.
The Eleventh Hour: Copyright 2021 by Jesse K. Butler. All rights reserved.
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