On this sacred day we’ve come en masse
to worship a strange and glitzy god
in plush robes, electronic halo.
From his broad golden hands
smelling of perfume and leather
pour markdowns, deals and bogos
under silver-tinseled signs saying
buy now or forever hold your peace.
I’ve seen this god and his dazzling
twenty-four-carat smile. I’ve thrown down
my cards and hard-won joy
at his altar. Enraptured by that smile
I’ve sung his commercial hymns
and eaten his Pan de Visa. You’d think
I’d have learned after a time
to spot a fool’s gold grin.
On this god’s good Friday there’s no fasting
nor feasting, but a catch-me-if-you-can
of famine and consumption.
It’s a sly and sterile
shine, stunning you here
and now there—just keep
searching high and low, just keep trampling
the foe. Your crown awaits, pre-ordered.
