RESURRECTION

Now that love has unsoldered my soul

I marvel that a man can shovel snow hunchbacked

in the frigid humidity thrusting all his weight

on something not a woman.

Or that a woman can patiently cater to

a bawling infant demanding to fed or diapered.

The domestic world I coveted so and clasped

like rubies has bled out and lolls anemic.

Cells replicate in me like pocketed prayers;

forgotten embryos of desire balloon me like

cumulus.   A second pubescence smirks

around the kitchen corner out of sight

of piled plates with various incarnations

of gross if interesting mold.

Ecstatic, I've fallen off the flagellated path

jogged for decades, and am ready to totter

off curbs like cliffs, splash hard into my own waters,

roll inanely down hills of sweet green grass

and laugh hysterically with hosts of Beelzebubs.

And yet. I know this will pass in a month, maybe two

and the absurd middle-aged blush will fade

and assume its familiar hue.

So what is the point of blossoming?

Death, in general, and that of passion,

is ever-ready to sweep us off our dust-encrusted feet.

Still, I revel in the inner spray of sparks leaping

like crystal lions in my loins, certain a resurrection

Is in the making, though lusting after nothing

remotely Christlike, content with ordinary

human folly and wicked bray,

with snowflakes that prance, careen and bow

in these brief, these diamond days.

Copyright Julianza Shavin 2008