Poem for Friday, September 28, 2012

Strangers and Pilgrims

when you tore out of my skin, sewed me
back up to hide my shy vitals and sopped up
my blood on your supple body in a single
towel wipe, you asked,

if we have to be here, can we at least walk
without sinking into strangers' footprints?

no, I opined. we were born too late on
finite soil. you embraced me then through
all the seasons, sucked out the remnants of
death from my neck.

pulled the hay fields from my hair. said I
tasted like the cedar in your granddaddy's
table, the salt in the Dead Sea. Let me tell you
a story about Lazarus,

the universe and drowning in bathwat--
before I finished, you tore me open again.