On the Third Day

On the third day,
she rose again

emerging from a nest
of poetry scraps and shiny,
metal objects.

I awoke in the underworld,
limbless, stripped of armor
and all defenses.

Genuflected before
the reflection of my

Wept for the deaths
of every skin cell
I slough off, unknowingly.


My face pressed
to cloth,
lipstickless kiss to
the holy shroud, my pillowcase –
in dreams I leave
my legacy.

They asked so sweetly,
for an autograph,
then clawed
for a strand of hair,
attempted coercion for fingerprints,
dumpster dove for toenail clippings
& other remnants
of my former selves.

If you look in the tomb,
you will not find me.
There is no enclosed
sleeping beauty, waiting
to be kissed.

Despite the static,
I hear her coming through,
projections of a voice
through the telephone wires
in synaptic dance.

In the midst
of the unraveling,
you may find yourself
humming little songs
of intentional regeneration.

You may find that you are always finding
a new way of being.




Hey, friends! Here we go. NaPoWriMo 2014. I’ve been scribbling in my journal the past two days, but I’m planning to get all caught up and get ’em up here today. Here’s to continuing on even when you feel like you’re scraping at the bottom of the barrel.




3 thoughts on “On the Third Day

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