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Alan Botsford – Ⅰ

a mamaist resurrection





It’s going to happen anyway so

He made his death his life, for

In it—his death, that is—he rose higher and

Higher not past but through the towering

Frame of bones and the blood

Coursing along them in his veins

That wove the fluent rivers he

Learned to speak in; he rose

Not past but through the head and arms and shoulders

And legs and feet he possessed

With all the fruitfulness of his joy

From the ground up, and offered himself

To the surrounding air he breathed;

He rose not past but through the energy of his being

And found there a stream where

Other beings furnished their relations

That together seemed to mark off a new

Body, inward and storied, that now

Would be the life he rose through, the life

That was going to happen anyway,

That smelled sweet as a rose seizing the throat

And turned his utterance into a lived-in home

That, in being left behind, travels so far.