hi Mom,
let me bite your face
I love you
© Rachel Green July 2024
In the cemetery
graves have been opened;
dug out with hands and sticks and bits of stone
until the dead have been exhumed
and lie in confused repose
on the uncut grass
and the shade of self-seeded sycamores.
One lies feebly grasping at sunlight
trapped in the dirt of their coffin,
the barbed thorns of a yellow rose
planted by a well-meaning relative
tearing at paper-thin flesh.
And where is God now?
the second coming of the Christ still waiting
for the return of the Roman empire
and the lamentations of the social conscience.
© Rachel Green July 2024
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