Your Body, a Small Par­adise



in the sea­son of last things, when all be­comes sur­ren­der and

fall­ing into what hands and ris­ing into what em­brace

in that sea­son of end­ings then let me tend your body, a small par­adise

and I the gar­dener with laven­der sprigs to tuck be­hind your ears

and thyme be­neath your arms, prairie lilies on your eye­lids

and morn­ing glory in your hands

And then your feet

bound in pages torn from the gospel book

and whis­per­ing

Peace, peace or Blessed are the dead or Be­hold, I make all things new

Then with spiced linens to wrap you and with myrrh

to anoint you

Let them let me bury you and wait for the ten­der green shoots

of an­other king­dom to flower from your grave

And prom­ise me, prom­ise me

that the grain which dies shall rise and I will pluck

per­fumed herbs from be­hind your ears again

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