The Journal of his Delights

Third Chance at Resurrection

This muffled comfort,
even the air is stiff with its melancholy,
the sick smell of old flowers and poison.

The skeletal jailer beside you
counts down, drop by drop,
shot by shot;
the sweetest irony,
the toxin fed you
for your own good,

through the Middle Passage¹,
this new repose,
your Henrietta Marie²,
your Adelaide,
your Wanderer.

It’s all a fettered heart can do
to press back into a sour-colored, vinyl-covered chair,
to count the marks upon withered yellow walls,
and keep from flying out and away
through the window for a third chance at resurrection.

What course now, old hate?
The old clock in the corner
counts down in starts and breaks,
breath catching with every turn,
and slanted light, jagged across the floor,
shadows more than it shows.

No,
my death’s head on a bed,
I will not flee today.
I will hold tight this silent witness
and wait.

And wait.
And wait.

For some day soon
the shackles will slip,
birds will sing
outside an open window,
and I will watch you
die.

Believe it or not, the poem posted for today’s Poetry Monday originated as part of a game.

I had asked three friends for a grouping of three words each, and then used those words as seeds for three different poems. Third Chance at Resurrection was the strongest of the pieces that came out of the game, and earlier this year, I revised it into its current shape.

I’m pleased with how it turned out. And if you’re curious about the seed words for this poem, they were melancholy, Africa, and comfort.

——
P.S. There are a couple of notes for the poem, and you’ll find them in the comments.

What Would Rumi Say

What would Rumi say if he saw me?
Panting like a dog, barking at heaven,
aching to nuzzle my lover’s face.

It’s simple!
Get drunk and climb the nearest mountain.
Howl at the moon.
Pour out your heart like wine into that absolute longing.

Turn in place and skip sleep.
Fly straight into dreaming of your lover’s hand,
warm upon your neck.