Anything can be an altar. 
I skip Easter mass
to sit by the window 
in my old bedroom.
(The walls are still pink
but the hospital bed
is new.)
April sun pools
on my father’s chest
& the tray of offerings
beside him:
a mug of coffee,
now cold;
quartered strawberries,
their red juices
seeping lazily
across the plate
toward the English muffin
with Taylor ham
& congealed eggs.
My father snores
& to me it is birdsong.
It reminds me
of an old photo
on my mother’s fridge:
him asleep in a beach chair 
in Wildwood Crest: 
mouth open, 
one earbud dangling loose 
like a new species of jellyfish.
Now he sleeps curled 
in the nautilus shell 
of his own spine, 
coral pink bath towel
rolled & tucked 
under his bad knee.
I like to imagine 
he is being cradled 
in the hand of a giant
I can’t see—