“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,
until
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,
the
linchpin,
the
keystone,
the choice.
And choice
might just want a bed of gist,
a
resonance of gravity and a nascent green stubble of winter wheat.
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