Freshly fallen from the mountain, Jedidiah in the thick garden
moonlight cautions us that death is an illusion. Some ease
their dark debt with blindness but Jedidiah steps forward, intact:
I rotted in the rock for a long lake of years
before uninvited, I inhaled my roses again.
Between sky and dust, death is the only fiction.
I looked suffering in the face, saw its cruel intention,
seized the history of ages by its forearm for a strong pulse.
My choice was the branch and this rope of my own hand
but that door closed on me. I am more alive now
than when my life was an egg in the womb of the world.
Oblivion took pity on me, freed my shackled breath,
declared my destiny. I am a tool of God
and his legions of descendants who spread like spilled
wine from this garden. They need my blood
to rinse their absolution.
This piece first appeared in Cerise Press, Spring 2013 under the title Incrimination.