from the dead

Two days under the sun, and I thought
the air was beginning to smell like bee spit
And the clouds were somehow
Lactating

I feel so raw, I thought under the sun,
so flawed. those were
My fishermen days

When men hung Jesus on a wooden frame
On a whitewashed wall
Whose gaze is fixed on a corner, eyes
Bleary

Oily Saint Mary, Moses!
Jerichos, echoes, my voice in a tomb.
How fleeting is life
How hungry the womb, I am
Numb, numb, numb.

One day, the Son of God appeared
His hair is white as wool, eyes of
Fire

And called out my name.