From the far star points of his pinned
extremities,
cold
inched in—black ice and squid ink—
till
the hung flesh was empty.
Lonely
in that void even for pain,
he
missed his splintered feet,
the
human stare buried in his face.
He
ached for two hands made of meat
he
could reach to the end of.
In
the corpse’s core, the stone fist
of
his heart began to bang
on
the stiff chest’s door, and breath spilled
back
into that battered shape. Now
it’s
your limbs he comes to fill, as warm water
shatters
at birth, rivering every way.
--Mary Karr,
Descending Theology:
The Resurrection
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