The gash in your chest could be an eye
seeing from its own darkness
the black center of each creature.
It could be a birth canal, whose labor
is grieving for the death of God,
ellipsis in the scripture of your flesh.
Now smother the ululation of your storm
for three days and nights.
On the last morning, even before
the keening of the raven,
walk among lilies as a woman
who has lost the lover of her youth,
desperate as the Magdalene,
careless and bold as Radha,
wild as Ishtar searching for Tamuz
among the empty tombs.
Hang the withered garland of you memory
on every stone.
In the darkest hour, welcome the gardener
who has no name.
Do not mistake him for a savior.
Do not deny him when he plunges the hoe
of ruthless inquiry into your breastbone
and the worms cry out, and the sun pours
from your wound like the honey
you were searching all over the moon for.
You are the garden, he is the Spring.