War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

lazarus (37)

Lazarre, Lazarus, I know a woman
she has her own Lazarus too, has
washed the sand from his clothes,
felt his tears on her bare shoulders,
walked winter beside him just after war,
the winter that counts for so much,
watched him fall, fall, fall, he fell away
in confusion her Lazarre tripped, fell
from her in violence, disassembled
and now she cannot sleep
her heart night-split, as was yours,
split like a pomegranate with a dull knife,
her tears, seed hearts within hearts
infinite lover. each perfect, sweet
and tart, seed with potential
for so much more life, more love,
more worlds than her Lazarus could imagine.
Lazarre, this woman is not I,
nor is her heart my heart,
open to you, for you, with you,
by you, our bodies, making a new land,
my heart, a green oasis of date palms
where bombs once cratered
the good earth of our innocence,
my heart lies open, receiving like the fields
of Flanders receive poppies, skylarks, each spring
and the sounds of your footfall, o Lazarre
left, right, left, towards my bed, I will
receive again and again and again.

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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled lazarus (37). It was posted here on February 10, 2012.


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