Lifting the cry, Hosanna, I welcome my triumphant I,
(Feeling my mother’s side-eye—Easter and countless rites were narrowly sacred.)
My parade moves languidly down rugged Jerusalem’s path:
“You must pound the ground smooth where you are sitting,” Unumbotte ordered.
Dust sifts light and thin off of hard soil in my Holy Land,
Swaying palms move hot air gently across my smiling face.
Hosanna.
