Poetry

A crushed jade beetle, 

stirred in a tear-filled phial,

saffron smoke ascends.

The iron retort shivers,

Alchemy of naming life.

When the body folds, 

the sky begins to fissure, 

a crumbling mirage, 

penumbra spiraling out, 

there the precipice ignites.

The dust tastes of rain

two seasons away, yet she 

will turn and walk on;

the old way is a slow, sure

persistent need in the bone.

I swallowed the ash,

my throat a dry, crumbling hole,

and swore on that dirt

I'd make you see what I meant--

Raising the dead is the truth.

The thin brass circle,

cold against the hollow bone.

It won't click open.

The past haunts the hinge's rust,

a face too faded to name.

I scratched through the silt,

feeling for the edge of pain,

the one that hid.

It came back, sharp as a glass,

shattering the day's last shell.