• iyamdavid2 10w

    To raise the dead

    The sorrow birds find what is weak,
    my chest, beak-marked, my eyes
    long gone. You left

    is the wrong way of putting it. If death
    is a doorway, I am gate seeker,
    key monger, sentry.

    There was something in your body
    that couldn't be snared
    by fang or talon.

    I have heard it whisper from the hall,
    felt it pass through me sudden when
    your face appears

    in an old painting or
    rides the edge
    of a ring's coral flush.

    A monument is an effigy is a cage of straw.
    Ash of bone is not the same as bone itself;
    a shroud in water seems alive but isn't.

    What spells are left to us, I will root them out.
    What I know about forests is they always grow back.