“Our species is committing suicide – that is a choice…” -- Terry Tempest Williams
Death might be just a holy rend a stitch of good luck,
a weeping of snow melt.
How resurrection prefers dirty water and pain, I’ll never understand.
Her instructions comprise
a tiny storm of mercy– full of crows and bottle flies,
to debride the corpse,
and morning light supple as fish bellies
to code a new practice,
day in and day out
and a renaissance of questions,
a splash of breath rinsed in tea leaves and sea air,
the blood and semen find their legs
to dance past angry prophecy
and drab dreams.
Death confessed everything before he conjured the crisis,
before he created the cliffhanger,
And choice might just want a bed of gist,
a resonance of gravity and a nascent green stubble of winter wheat.