The Wake

The body is not a prison
it is a temple;
not a cage from which the soul escapes,
but a holy place built
for sanctification, redemption

on that Day
bone and ash will rise
from graveyards and cisterns,
swirl upward like smoke
re-creation of fingers, palm, wrist
glowing gloriously in light
toe by toe, a foot, a leg
dancing as they rise
a people resurrected

lips sealed from life’s last kiss
open to holy, holy, holy
for they did not feel
the sting of death.