From The Desert Gardens

Freshly fallen from the mountain, Jedidiah in the thick garden moonlight
cautions us that death is an illusion.
Some ease their dark debt with blindness but Jedidiah steps forward, intact:
I rotted in the rock for a long lake of years
before I inhaled the uninvited roses again.
Between sky and dust, death is the only fiction.
I looked suffering in the face, saw its cruel intention
seized the history of ages by its forearm
for a strong pulse. My choice was the stout branch
and the knots I twist with my ropy hands
but that door closed on me. I am more alive now
than when my life was an egg in the womb of the world.
Oblivion took pity on me, freed my shackled breath
and declared my destiny. I am a tool of God
and his legions of descendants who spread like spilled wine
from this garden. They need my blood to rinse their absolution.
It is death that imagines a world of empty graves.
I am but the reflection in your still pool
and my desire deserts me.

Printed from Cerise Press:

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