Poetry month - let the dead rise, by Raya
let the dead rise
by Raya
paper sits on the wooden table & doesn't know what touch feels like.
& what of touch - indelicate, I didn't intend to cocoon it beneath a shell
conditioned not to break. a pen, I am thinking, touching: I can write
mother's body is not a sunday dress an ambulance collects
& hauls down the street for the examiner to unstitch, for the mortician
to suture back & breathless. I have to believe that
I can write:
mother's body is not a dead thing I watch others gently pack into soil
where above, someone erects stone that reads: she rests in peace.
my grandmother calls peace heaven, & I say what she calls heaven is earth
swallowing a person. I say we are Abraham sacrificing the son without lamb.
via deviantart
by Raya
paper sits on the wooden table & doesn't know what touch feels like.
& what of touch - indelicate, I didn't intend to cocoon it beneath a shell
conditioned not to break. a pen, I am thinking, touching: I can write
mother's body is not a sunday dress an ambulance collects
& hauls down the street for the examiner to unstitch, for the mortician
to suture back & breathless. I have to believe that
I can write:
mother's body is not a dead thing I watch others gently pack into soil
where above, someone erects stone that reads: she rests in peace.
my grandmother calls peace heaven, & I say what she calls heaven is earth
swallowing a person. I say we are Abraham sacrificing the son without lamb.
via deviantart