I Confuse Palm Sunday with Palm Springs by Jeannine Hall Gailey

And imagine Jesus walking in the desert,

drinking date shakes, noticing the giant statue

of Marilyn has disappeared. Nothing lasts forever,

he shakes his head. He checks into the motel

Frank Sinatra was supposed to have stayed in.

The glassy pools form a patchwork against 

the brown sand and he wishes he had one 

of those giant neon cocktails in his hand. 

Palm fronds move in the barely-there breeze,

an echo of praise he has already forgotten. 

How long since people stopped looking for him,

stopped saying “He is risen?” He shrugs

and wonders through the mid-century modern

antiques, as a carpenter, he appreciates

the clean lines. I wish us both a vacation

to somewhere warm and sunny, nothing

to do but stare at the desert horizon,

listening to whir of air conditioners 

buzzing on and off in the sunset, a kind of psalm. 

Jeannine Hall Gailey is a poet with MS who served as Poet Laureate of Redmond, Washington. She’s the author of five books of poetry, including her latest, Field Guide to the End of the World, winner of the Moon City Press Book Prize and the SFPA’s Elgin Award. Her work appeared in journals like The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares,and Poetry. Her web site is www.webbish6.com. Twitter and Instagram: @webbish6.

29 November 2021