Resurrect

I woke where my name had already rotted

No miracle, just muscle. No god, just want

My resurrection was not tidy, nor glorious

It never comes gentle, tearing through its own mummified shroud

Even bones bloom, if you wait long enough in the dark

Unblinking, hardly breathing;

I stitched myself from what I’d thrown away,

And built a new body out of snarled curses and ash.

The dirt held me until I stopped apologising for the dark

I rose, not to live, but to remember how it felt to want life

The soil remembered what I tried to forget

left it buried under my fingernails.

My pulse learned to mimic the hum of flies.

I didn’t rise. I was dragged upward by what I buried

There’s holiness in rot, you see;

the saints just never stayed long enough to see it.