Wake up Lady Lazarus & smell the coffin, right?
Now, suffer that sick warm fluid seeping back into your cranial bowels.

Take hold & grip it!
Let the roots, the awful roots, of the honeysuckle pull you out of the ground.

Don’t. I said, Do…Not!
Allow this planet to swallow you down like some feel-good pill, At least,
Not while your head is still pretty.

Tomorrow, we can all be martyred instead,
then it will be up to your budding Corpse to bury the living dead.
But don’t worry, just toss in a few grains of dust at a time…until
we are all deeply buried within the cemetery lines.

O Lazy Lady Lazarus, Queen of the impish moon,
Daughter Of the son Of the sun & All His transference of light,
I see how He let you invent the shadows of the day.

& In your naughty way, upon the first draft of his book,
in yellow crayon, you wrote, “Oh, Let there be blight!”

Sometimes, I picture you pinned to the aching afternoon–
Tanned & in your ruffled bathing suit
& golden hair spun into a cocoon to cover your sacred scars,
Your babies right there beside you.
You & your Golden babies…
Arranged on a beach blanket like Taroc cards, like Taroc cards…

Waiting for someone to come and finally decrypt you –

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