The Poet’s Resurrection

October 27, 2010

         for George Manner
Oh, how excited they were to hear of your return. They love the earthy ones, those that smell of bear fresh from hunting fish in the rapid shallows.

“But he will not be happy to return.”
“Then we shall make him so, feed him tart pomegranate and wet mango, give him the luxury of sleep with a cool pillow and high bed.”

But they don’t understand how much of the earth you consumed, how many loves you had to close your eyes to lest you lose your balance, how much language filled the pocket of your most threadbare jeans, the thrashing of a night crawler.
There are no poets in heaven for long. The restless hasten their return, ever sure this time they will find the most elusive words in the depth of a too ripe plum, the hot sting of the silence following a slap, the moment the wind flaps her skirt when the sea chops the bow and shore.
You will rise coughing sea water from your lungs to wail tempest at all that was left unsavored.
And they will wonder why the poets cannot stay.


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