The top of the brown mountain seemed
forever far, until my bones rested
in thanks on a boulder tipped,
and sky on my sweat meant
quiet and sleep
hovering blue and brightly,
edged next to a cliff sharp and steep.
When I awoke from daydream’s
porchfronted pouch,
the gray rock facing me
showed a man’s one-eyed pout,
which soon revived me
like Jesus enlivened
a girl dead
in her parent’s house,
she awakens to his command:
‘talitha kumi’,
‘little girl, wake up!’
Then on the dry ground lay
a black shell of beetle
left empty and brittle,
the crust of the self,
uncovered flesh had slipped away
into new silver light,
these transformed apostles,
numbered twelve.
And I knew in that moment
so pure and precise,
that she is worth
complete sacrifice.
Peace of salted body
and sweet fruit of calmed mind
walked slow and strong down
that great mountain,
where all and nothing
were buried behind.
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