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.