I am not Lazarus.

Cowled, saintly bishops in their marble folds


resplendent in stone, rested

and wrinkled.

Long-lived and hunched by God’s love like Atlas

(decorated like His maps),

sleeves drip to the ground under kissing palm prayers,

and now the tomb sees them sleep

in lines, and pretty and neat;

as gilt as their bibles, detailed as their vows,

ornate as godly fables, creases of old brows!

So picturesque, unfathomable.

The careful work of religious hands.


My headstone, in truthful simplicity sits,

a final milk tooth to fall from a child’s puckered lips,

bought (cheaply) by a loved one with some

lilies and some baby’s breath they picked.

Linear as my life, and soon washed out by winter’s rains,

visitors soon pass as the beauty quickly drains.

Happily drab am I -

forgotten by the fortune of your cathedral day-dreams,

and the whispered lullabies you utter -

and happily drab my body remains.

The End

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