It would take much faith to believe my mother
out of that coffin,
that grave.
But I had it
and would coax her forth like Lazarus
in the middle of her viewing.
Her green dress did not
flutter as I wafted
then whipped
prayer after prayer into the breeze
of the funeral parlor’s ceiling fan.
Live.
Live.
Her stiff hair did not stir.
I left bitter as a green orange.
I didn’t know that faith
could also hush her and cool
the cancer that once
steamed and blew
like a geyser
through her bones,
her repose in perfect line
with an exhausted domestic
finally soaking
her calloused heels
in the warmth
of a freshly drawn bath.
How faith could cap that soul
which otherwise might have swirled
and risen in ignorance
like an insect
toward the human call and gleam
so blue and shimmering
with wing shards,
sizzling promise.
● ● ●
