High above the scraped out and bone cold desert she stands,
as faint, dainty and as moved by breath as spider webs,
she watches the lights, lights, lights mopping up the blood.
After all was taken, all the knives writing blasphemies upon her,
all the way to her bones, to the marrow that was black, spongy
scripture to turn the tide, she was wrapped in white cloth without spices.
She stands on the hill, still carrying those carved blasphemies, those unkind
spells, but the lights, lights, lights are mopping up the blood, and the blasphemies
become red like His words, and something is regained from The Pit.
What choice can be perfect when all can chose? What grace that doesn’t hang
the prophet and turn the sea to wormwood, as prayers hold us close in days and
nights burning, but not it putting out the sparks lined up like forks on the bar.
She stands on the hill, and she disassociates from flesh and earth and that haughty
sea, and it hurts but it throbs hot, as the lights, lights, lights mop up the blood, and
an angel tends to her body, the spice and oils to make her ready for the resurrection.
The desert is scraped and bone cold, predawn no reptiles sit upon their high thrones,
but scavengers make a meal of bones, dried tendons that are nooses for the prophets.
She will be in glory, the blasphemies filled in with blood, and covered over in gold.
