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Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend

“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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Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend

  Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend And life a faithful pillow - a pillow to go flat, a spirit to drift off,  glaciers to melt and raise the sea. The blueprint is clear - Expect a tiny storm of mercy–  full of crows and bottle flies to debride the corpse,  to tithe the land.      And respect the putrid demise - things that fall apart make space for miracles.   Yet there persists the memory of breath rinsed in lavender and salt air. Then the dreams for blood and semen to revive, to metabolize  every tired, sad gospel into a hatch of octopus. Death confesses everything as she conjures her necrosis, as she feigns redemption, fools us with false devotion. She believes our defiance will set her free.   We must let grief to be the thread and needle to darn the rend, renew the cloth. then we can grasp the nascent green of winter wheat in spring.
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