That you would find me in the hollowed bones
of sun-dried cattle, asleep in the desert, and wake me

with the cells needed for my restoration, reassembled
into rivers of salt and blood, layered in skin never before

touched, newborn with shadow-sight, awkward and afraid,
unsure if the vast space inside me can be filled by a man

who would spin through my center with the velocity
of planets, and the scream of fierce winds, who would

identify me in the dark with hands of red clay, perform
the ritual and say the words, that I would, once again,

know the confusion and delirium of Lazarus

 

Priscilla Barton resides in New York, and works in the field of Mental Health. Her poetry will be appearing in Shades Of December, and Falling Star Magazine.

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